Albeit Abnormal
by Leara Fiera
Summary: AU-NCIS with a supernatural twist. NEW STORY! When a vampire kill so neat is is statistically impossible, the team must venture to NY for suspects, leaving exposed weaknesses behind. While there, Abby meets her vampire father who makes Rena stiffen. 1ST CHAPTER UP.
1. Cries of the Wolves: Self Control

**Author's note: **I decided to give an AU-version of NCIS a shot. Since it's AU, it won't have the original storyline of how the main characters met, but it'll be inspired and all good things have survived. Anyway, it's unbeta-ed, since I'm itching for reviews. Chapter II is already written and I'll hold it hostage until some reviews are in. It's based off an idea I had ages ago, after reading something that has a remarkably likeliness, but I have tried my best to make it as much my own as I can claim. I take requests if you want something from the original show added in the storyline, a dialogue, perhaps.

**Disclaimer: **Everything you can recognize as NCIS doesn't belong to me. Grace Warner does, though :D

**Chapter I: Tension That Can't Be Faked**

He has to admit it. He is fascinated by her. She just appeared one day, out of the blue, like most they encounter in their rather unusual occupation. Her name, her reasons and her atmosphere were all concealed and unreasoned. She kept to herself and he doubted her the first two weeks until he saw for himself the way she handled her first vampire – killed the thing without blinking an eye with a blast huge enough to blow a rock off the surface of the Earth.

Tony knows why he's here. He's here out of the requirements to other jobs; when you tell the job interviewer that you tend to howl at the moon once a month, they have a tendency not to call back. Being a wer makes him capable of many things. At first, he didn't know what to do. He was confused and had nowhere to go. He sought the only place he knew he wouldn't be considered a freak, but it turned out to be a wrong kinda place. Running with the ferocious Craven wers was a bad idea. It had been rather coincidental that Jethro had found him. Tony shivers at the memory. He has not forgotten the way Jethro Gibbs, licensed wer-hunter had given him when he'd lied, bloody and transformed, shying away from anything that moved, blood from his victims on his teeth. Instead of killing him right there – and Tony is certain to this day that he could have – the grey-haired augmenter offered his hand to Tony and learnt him to handle the process. It took Jethro months to rehabilitate him, during which he could easily have putted Tony down like the wer he was. The only explanation Tony had gotten from him was that he'd been "at the wrong place at the wrong time".

Ever since he'd recuperated, he has worked with Jethro Gibbs in hunting down criminals of the supernatural element; the ones hidden from the eye of modern society. While Jethro is quiet, stern and doesn't talk about anything besides work, there's his fellow teammates, some which don't know his secret either. Well, half of it. They know he's a wer. The three-day time-off he has to take once a month is kinda hard to explain else-how. They accept it; they are all a wicked bunch. The antisocial Jethro "Jet" is an augmenter, able to increase power in other people, but also able to weaken them. It makes him a dangerous opponent and an amazing ally. He protects them all, even if he's not the strongest. He is their leader and even Tony knows that.

But, the newest member of their fighting gig, she's something else. Tony cannot smell her; he has used his wer abilities and she smells odd. He has only been a wer for three years, so his sense of smell is not as advanced as his former acquaintances (who he doesn't like to talk about), but usually he can smell if people are lying. Jet says it's the hormones that's released into the air. Whenever he speaks about it, there's an obvious amount of disgust crossing Jethro's face and Tony has never dared to ask further questions. Jethro has hunted wers half of his life; why Tony doesn't know and doesn't dare to find out even if he's dying of a severe case of curiosity. This is satisfied with the mystic about Ziva David. She's exotic and makes his metaphorical tail wag. She is like an inexplicable spice on life. Her hazel eyes, olive skin (with the faintest hue of purple, which he has discovered thanks to his incredible wer senses) and waist-long brunette hair are only the most superficial to her air of mystic.

Jethro hasn't explained her presence. He acts as if she is here on contract, like the liaisons from the more "normal" agencies. Neutral, Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism – NCIS – has an agreement with other agencies within the United States. Every once in a while, they send a newbie over to learn how to "mediate between the freaks with the superstitious cases". Well, the bureaucrats that said that have never been face-to-face with a vampire determined to leave your corpse a bloody bag of intestines and cracked bones. Therefore, the NCIS team members do their best to screw the bureaucrats over each time. It's amazing how easily scared a trained FBI agent can be. Nevertheless, it puzzles Tony why this doesn't apply to Miss David.

The girls in Ectoplasm say that she's friends with Jen Sheppard; it would explain the lack of bullying, but remember to count in the fact that the Israeli is scary with her hostile glance and icy facial expressions. Jen is their official mediator between the federal agencies. She tolerates the prejudices the agents have of NCIS, even if she's an Elemental herself. An Elemental with insane self-control. Tony has never seen her affected by the things she is present to hear. The unmovable mountain, he calls her in his mind, but never around the team. Mallard, their medical examiner, has the gift of telepathy. The scotsman is loyal and considers Jen a dear friend. He doesn't read minds because he considers it rude, but that's what he says. Tony is still cautious around him, repeating the victim's name over and over again whenever he's down there.

Anyway, he often works with Timothy McGee, who's a medium. It sounds dorky, but his ability to see the dead allows him to enter other realms – at least mentally. Trust the kid's instincts. The dead often warns the listening living from danger. Tim, he's a valid ghost-talker, no offense. Tony likes to taunt the younger member, but in truth, he appreciates the friendship and partnership between them. Tim is mostly okay with Tony being a wer (even though he paled very much when they were first introduced) and they've grown to be pals, as Mallard would say. That was, before Ziva entered the game. Everything has changed since her arrival and she, Jethro and Jen all act like it hasn't. It bothers Tony, because he has to trust his workmates with his life – something he doesn't with the Israeli, (even though two out of six has tried to kill him, and the third actually shot him).

His life has definitely changed since Ziva David walked through the doors a month ago. Even though she bothers him, he is truly fascinated by her. She has apparently accepted their extraordinaries, but she works like she is on a deadline. When Tony steps out of the elevator of their office (on eighth of a eleven-year-old building in the edges of downtown), she is the first person he notices. It is Thursday and the full moon comes in just two days. It's the first leave he has to take while Ziva has been on the team and he doesn't trust her enough to leave his spot on the team empty for three whole days).

"Hi," he says to be friendly. She returns the favor but doesn't start a conversation. Neither does she stare at him like the freak he is (or people think he is), so that's a good thing. He is saved by the bell (or at least he thinks), but then he sees that it's merely one of the Ectoplasm girls running an errand. He knows by the pace. He also knows that he's late and Tim usually is in by now. He checks his cell _(no calls)_ and decides, against his better judgment, to ask her.

"You know where Tim and Gibbs are?" He tries to sound casual, but she looks at him startled anyway. They haven't used a decent tone with each other without the company of others. She keeps to herself because that's how her killer charm works and he hasn't showed interest in her work – at least not overly. Much.

"They were called to a scene. Mallard and the psychic followed," she says, just as casually. Tony moves to leave his desk, but she cuts his action off. "They wanted you to stay here. Something about.. vampire marks," Ziva adds mystically like it has sparked her attention suddenly to have something in leverage. He sighs dramatically.

"So, we have a natural tendency to not get along. I still don't see why I couldn't come!" Tony feels a little left out; he still hasn't noticed why his new partner – he grinds his teeth mentally – is still here.

"Plus he said that with the moon coming in two days, it would not be good to be involved with a vampire case. Your tolerance would be lacking in the few days," she replies. Tony looks at her, trying to conceal his flabbergasted expression and determine whether or not she's making it up.

"He said that many words?"

"Well, no," she admits, "but I can tell." She doesn't explain but her posture is more relaxed now. She keeps typing up some report. Tony has a pile of his own paperwork creating a small hoard on his desk. He doesn't want to admit to being out of control in these next couple of days, even if Jethro is right; especially not to her.

"Anyway, I'm in perfect control," he starts, offended. "I can't see why he'd want me to sit out on this. I'v worked vampire cases before. And I've even worked on evenings with the full moon," he points out.

"Yeah, but both? You should listen to Gibbs. In my experience, he knows more about this sorta thing than you," she spits absentmindedly. Anger rises, and he's at her desk in minutes, containing himself as to keep him from grabbing her neck in fury. He bares his teeth even though he's not transformed. It's usually enough to remind people of his wer abilities. He's leaning over the table, pressing her half out of her chair with a murderous expression on his face.

"What?" he snarls. It comes out like a roar. She is numb, her face stricken with semi-surprise and frozen; pen still in hand for her own personal notes. Her hazel eyes meet his, battling for dominance. Shit, he thinks. He's fallen in her trap. She has just proved his rather unstable nature. Slowly, he retracts his claw-like hands from the base of her neck. "I see your point," he responds quietly as he walks to his own desk.

"Testy these days," she replies to no-one in particular. Her matter-of-factly tone annoys him, but he has already closed her off. No, today his fascination is equal to self-loathing. She continues her work like nothing happened, and therefore it's first when Gibbs and Tim return that he remembers her ragged breath when his hand pressed in on her skin. Shameful, he chooses to ignore the sign. Yet it is as if Jethro can read his thoughts when he comes back, see that his agent has done something he is not allowed to. He doesn't comment it, but sends Tony a warning glare before heading to Jen's office. Needless to say, Tony begins filling out the pile of paperwork that needs doing before the grey-haired hunter is given another reason to fire (or kill) him.

_**(BREAK)**_

The sight of an Elemental is always one Jethro forgets and is hit by every time he sees Jenny Sheppard. Her element is air, despite how fiery her eyes can burn and how heated their arguments can be. She is one of the few sylphs in North-America but she is not like the rest of Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism. She is sophisticated and possesses a great deal of self-control in any situation. Secretly, Jethro likes to give himself credit for some of it; at least the person she is today. When he first met her, she was lost. Driven, but lost, coping with rage and creating dust-devils wherever she went. Emotionally, she was a wreck, wreaking havoc on the west coast. His time spent with her taught her patience and she dealt with her pain. She moved on and became the woman Jethro looks at today. Her emerald green eyes are filled with passion and not even hundreds of words could describe the intensity and fatigue in them. Jethro knows a thing or two about the fatigue that comes with containing yourself. He has felt it and inflicted it.

She is a natural redhead and slim. Slightly petite, but she makes up for it. Dressed to kill politically, she rarely uses her gift. The office she holds is slightly grander than usual offices; monitors to video-confer on every wall. She is the face outwards to the world. Mostly people don't know about the paranormal. The things that crosses the line to imagination. Beings like Jen and Jethro and the rest of the team. The things they do not understand and therefore fear. Jethro has often admired Jenny's liking of her job, even if it often collides with his.

"Jethro," she states and steps out of the shadows. He can hear the exhaustion in her voice but chooses not to comment it. He should know her snappiness no end can take when she is in this mood. He pads the couch and she resistively sits down. He begins to massage her neck, while she wryly begins to talk.

"What do you want now?" the red-haired director asks.

Jethro stops the massage, facing her. "I want DiNozzo off my team," he says casually as he massages lower on her neck, making her moan lightly. She stiffens when he has spoken and theatrically turns around, astounded.

"DiNozzo? But you vouched for him, to let him –.." She cuts herself off, realizing where this is going; realizing why he wants this. "What has he done?"

"Attacked Ziva this morning." Plainly, simple.

Jen widens her eyes. The green throws sparks. Mockingly, she begins to talk. "Can you verify that or is it your.. gut?"

"He didn't have to say anything. I could see his guilt from the elevator. The boy has some major regret from attacking your pet. Her presence unravels him, Jen, you know that."

"It's the full moon approaching," Jenny reasons, seemingly not too worried for the Israeli liaison she has brought in that was nearly the cause of a rage-induced transformation.

"What is she?" Jethro asks sternly, demanding an answer. "I need to know why the person with the best judge of character I've seen in a long time doesn't want to go near your friend unless he's attacking her!"

His ice-blue eyes meet the emeralds of the Elemental. Tension flashes between them, but not the romantic kind; this is anger and frustration and a bit of lust. Jenny is far too clever not to realize that what he demands isn't unreasonable. But something is keeping her from the truth. He can see the hesitation creep its way unto her pale face. The darkened room needs some light.

"She doesn't have a drop of vampire in her, if that's what you're implying, Jethro," the Elemental says through her teeth. Her nails bore into the couch. "She is an excellent agent and she has been trained properly not to hesitate. You saw that on the Yaeger case last week. She can take care of herself," Jenny promises, eye contact between them.

"That's not what I am asking for," Jethro replies. "He tolerates Abby, but he cannot keep himself in check over Ziva? How come?"

Jen smiles victoriously. "Perhaps his feelings are in the way. We've seen what emotions do to individuals like Tony –."

"... Don't.." he warns.

"– so it may only be his own oddities that's keeping him from trusting his new partner," Jenny finishes a little triumphantly. Jethro looks baffled and says, like he can't believe she's doing this,

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Jethro. From this moment on, they're partners. It's the only way I see possible for them to overcome their differences," Jen reasons while she rises from the chair. Jethro stops her.

"We both know what sort of tension that can come out of two of _our _kind working so closely together. Tim has nothing against Ziva! Why don't partner them?" the grey-haired hunter asks her, using his best non-supernatural skill: manipulation. He whispers meanly. "You're quite confident that she won't get hurt..."

"Yes, and the partnership is final. Ziva and Tony are to work together until I say otherwise," the director states. Jethro, unable to reason with her, starts walking out of the Elemental's office, whispering as he leaves:

"Yeah, or they wind up killing each other..."

_**(BREAK)**_

Jethro would never admit it, but he is proud of Tony DiNozzo. The way he's overcome the basic needs of the wer (in this case, the wolf), it's impressive. He has followed the kid's transformation into a civic wer as he grew himself to tolerate wers. Ever since his wife was killed by wers back in the nineties, he had been despising them, killing them on the behalf of the government. But, as he'd caused some stampede in the Craven wers territory, he'd stumbled across Tony. At first, he'd thought that the poor kid was the leftover of the meal they'd shared. He was so bloody that Jethro hadn't noticed he was naked at first. He laid next to a young girl, eighteen at most, not moving, her face messed up from bites. Jethro had been horrified to see one of the girl's pearl earrings between the boy's teeth. He had been young, looking like a lost runaway except larger. More fit. As Jethro had pieced the events together, he had looked at the blonde kid and pointed his gun at him, despite the bewilderment on the young man's face. But he hadn't been able to pull the trigger. Tony had first come to his senses three days after and when he had realized that he'd taken a life during his first transformation, he'd stared blankly into the air for two hours before looking directly at Jethro with confusion and asked him why.

Having hunted wers for a long time, Jethro has learnt their primal instincts by heart. He knows that the ancient hatred between vampires and wers aren't just old wives' tales. Which is why he knows that assigning Tony a case involving vampires this close to the full moon would be irresponsible. Tony has a good heart, but suppressing the wer is something he can do twenty-eight days a month. He's good at the field work and except for the incidents within NCIS, he has surprised everyone with his self-control. Except this Ziva.

Jethro has to admit; the Israeli makes everyone tip their toes. She is a mystery to most and so far his other teammates have politely allowed her presence. But the office isn't big enough to conceal someone with the secrets he can feel Ziva. Secretly, he has several theories to what she is, but he tolerates her presence because of Jen. Like Jethro vouched for Tony, Jen has vouched for the Israeli woman, whose aim is excellent even though it's a silver-edged dagger. One reason as to why he wants his wer agent away from her. Tony's precaution towards her is unusual; he's a ladies' man, and his charms and looks have gotten him a long way into the beds of the women in the Ectoplasm division. Ziva is attractive and Jethro sees no reason why Tony wouldn't fall into bed with her. Not that he would allow it, or supports Tony's womanizing ways. However, he thinks it's good for Tony to be around people. The lone werewolf routine gets you nowhere (after all, Gibbs has almost been living it the past decade). Socializing is good for the young wer but his rules don't allow co-workers to get involved.

He pushes these thoughts away, and decides to go to his forensic scientist's lab. She will have found something by now, and he is certain that Tim is down there with her. The have a fond friendship even though Tim started out a little shy towards her. Jethro can't blame her, he wouldn't have his own daughter around her in the beginning; actually he questioned whether or not it would be wise to have a dhampir on his team but he has since not regretted his decision once. The lovable dhampir has all the personality traits from her human mother and though it makes people on edge that she wears a goth attire, she is nowhere near unhappy. Hyper-awake and intelligent, she is the only hugger Jethro allows. Besides, he owes her a life.

"Abby?" he calls out once he reaches the down floors. While Abby's human genes allow her to walk in the sun, she is irritated from noon till approximately two o'clock, when the sun reaches its zenith. Therefore she works in a basement-like area with minimum windows and all weirds sorta things dangling from the equipment, half of which he has no idea of.

"Gibbs?" she responds unnecessarily. She knows his scent and can recognize his presence. Stumbling is heard and the black-haired goth is in his sight in moments. "Good, you're here," she states, glancing her eyes to the side, but then refocusing. She strides to her computer, her eyes typing faster than Jethro thought possible. "I confirmed that it was indeed vampires on the scene." For some reason, she squirms a little at the word "vampire". She has gotten far, but the information that her vampire father raped her mother to create her (or if she was just an unlucky bi-product) haunts her forever. "As you are aware, their saliva has regenerative abilities, and you can see around the edges of the wound –." She uses her computer to zoom in on one of the crime scene photos. Jethro has no doubt that it is for him, since her eyesight is near perfect. The morbid, bloody mess around the victim's throat is obvious, the crimson jumping out of the faint beige carpet. " – it's starting to heal. While he was dying."

Jethro knits his brows. "So, he died after he was bitten?"

She nods. "Yeah. I mean, it's unusual, but I'm sure Ducky will tell you that he either died of suffocation combined with, or the result of, blood loss," Abby concludes. He catches her lick her lips where her pointy fang-like canines show. She becomes aware her action and widens her eyes in realization. "Sorry, Gibbs! I didn't mean to! It's just– the blood," she apologizes while stumbling back into her desk. Tears are forming in her eyes as the result of her own horrification to her vampiric traits. She cannot help that she lusts blood.

"Abbs, calm down. I'm sure that you won't harm anyone," Jethro promises with a steady voice, grabbing her shoulders. Hesitantly, she hugs him as the sobs subdue. After a few minutes where Jethro asks himself what is wrong with his team this day, she lets go and starts to reorganize.

"So, the vampire.." she pauses, then looks at him for support. ".. killed Eli Mortimer first, messily," she adds. "And it's definitely a vampire. Male, I'd say because of the levels of testosterone in the saliva. Unfortunately, it's not enough to be specific of the DNA," Abby says, shrugging apologetically. "I'm still working on the other victim."

Jethro kisses her on the forehead and heads out. "Good work, Abbs," he praises sincerely, sensing she has a need to verify her own control. And she knows that he isn't just talking about the forensics.

He rides the elevator to the area of the building that is called Autopsy on the floor-plan. In truth, the territory belongs to Donald "Ducky" Mallard, their medical examiner. He is also a telepath, often able to retrieve memories from the recent dead. Often his assistant will join him, James, who is actually working in the harbinger department with his twin sister, Grace, but he is fascinated by Dr. Mallard's work and from what Jethro has heard (he has his sources), the kid isn't a very good psychic. James, or Jimmy as he's called, is a helpful hand for the scotsman.

"So, Duck, whadd'ya have for me?" he asks, sipping his coffee as he steps out of the elevator, dumping the empty cup in a trashcan. Ducky doesn't allow food or drinks in the medical area. Mostly, they stitch themselves up after tough cases. Autopsies are only half of Ducky's work. He is their personal doctor, too.

"Oh, Jethro, what a delightful visit!" the ME says with a smile. He is scrubbed up and currently examining the neck from the blood on his gloved hands. He walks to the sink and removes them before speaking to Jethro.

"As you see, I've been quite busy with our two latest guests –." Ducky expands his hand to the two victims. "But I have finished the preliminary examinations on both Mr. Mortimer and Miss Kane. In Naomi Kane's case, her death was rather quick. Her neck was snapped after she was bitten. She is bled dry, I'm afraid, but some of the supposed feeding was done post-mortem. Very unusual," he notes. His face saddens at the presence of a young woman in his care. Her paleness is the result of both death and the lack of blood in her corpse. The blonde strands look like seaweed against the stainless steel table.

"Uriah Mortimer." Ducky sighs, "this young lad lying here. The rapture of his throat lead to his death. He was the horrified victim to his own death, and miss Kane's. The pattern is messier than on her. His memories are fragile and panicky and I've yet to conclude what really happened," the ME says, indicating he has been trying to read Uriah Mortimer, the first victim. "But maybe I'll have young Timothy try, if that's not too much to ask of you."

"The girl?" Jethro simply asks.

"I have no idea what she went through. Her mind is damaged – at least the part that holds the memories of recent. I believe she was drugged, but I have just sent Mr. Palmer down with a sample of her blood." When he sees Jethro frown, he adds: "Shouldn't I have?"

"She is taking this one hard, Duck," the grey-haired hunter admits, his eyes traveling the wound of the young man.

"Ah, the vampires," the ME confirms. He puts the scalpel down he just cleaned. "Yes, I suppose it is never easy for her to work with these creatures after what her father did to her mother. But, I must admit, I have never seen Kendra Scuito unraveled by it, let alone affected. She is a strong woman, Jethro, so Abby's fears are her own, from what I can tell."  
>"You've read her?"<p>

"No. As you know, I find it intrusive. If they cannot confide in me, I will not attempt to use force. Even though it seems our dear Anthony doesn't share that opinion," Ducky chuckles. Then he senses that there is something Jethro is unnerved by. He picks up on the small clues, not reading the mind of his old friend.

"You worried about him, Jethro?" he asks sincerely.

"Not as much as I am worried about our newest team member. She's not right, Ducky. I'm not sure why Jen has assigned her our team when she's not even NCIS. She is a foreign liaison, not one I trust."

"Well, you and Jennifer never could agree on such things," the ME points out ambiguously with a smile.

**REVIEWS ARE MY POISON OF CHOICE :D**


	2. Cries of the Wolves: Wer's Last Words

_**(BREAK)**_

"Grace?" Tim calls out after entering the harbingers' lounge – or the psych domain as Tony calls it (though Tim does think it's rather unfair and prejudiced to call it that). He has gone on a lead on the case they are working (a double homicide) and wants to be given advise from the cool-headed harbinger. Even though she is Jimmy's twin, she is much more rational and seems more mature. Not older, mature. Her blondish red hair makes her seem like a mermaid rather than a human with precognitive abilities. She doesn't work out of a cavern but a sunlit office with monitors and calenders and paperwork and phones. She is precise in her tellings, but combined with Jimmy (though Tim doesn't believe it), they're powerful. Her visions make her a very open-minded person and Tim feels that it's slightly less weird if he confides in her with his own visions. Except he sees ghosts. Not the past, the present nor the future. He sees an actual ghost that shows him things. Things nobody else can see. Not even Grace (Godiva's her stage name when she's off work) can see if he's seeing a ghost in one of her visions.

"Tim!" the harbinger exclaims with a huge smile. She rises from her chair and reveals a fashionable outfit of pencil skirt, comfortable stilettos and a capri-blue blouse. Her red-blonde hair is rippled on her shoulders, ringlets reflecting in the sunlight. She is beautiful and so genuine. She has a wonderful vibe and Tim doesn't need to be an aura reader to sense that.

"Am I intruding?" he asks friendly. She shakes her head.

"No, I was just doing some paperwork. It's due next Wednesday, so I'm not busy or anything. I take it you're here about that double homicide case you're having?"

Tim raises a brow at her knowledge. "I'm not psychic, I just tell the future. No, Jimmy told me," she explains with a light chuckle. Tim lets go of his tension.

"But I do have some information for ya," Grace states, meeting Tim's eyes. "You're not looking for your average night-stalker. He's more sophisticated, more composed.." Grace frets, visibly upset. Even though she isn't technically a part of their team, she cares for them. The feeling is mutual. Besides, it helps that prior to joining NCIS, Grace babysat for the Gibbs family, which is why their team leader trusts her and her visions.

However, Tim is usually the liaison between the Harbingers (because Gibbs thinks it's bullshit, and Tony makes fun of them). It would make more sense if it was Palmer, but Tim and Grace's connection allows them to tunnel the visions and interpret their unique powers. They understand each other, like Jen and Jethro have a connection, and therefore Jethro is the contact to Jen, like Abby is their contact to the sub-society of vampirism. Even though she is afraid of vampires because of her father, she has the best contacts of any of them, including Jenny.

"Also, you need to beware of the liaison," Grace warned clearly, her golden eyes seeking his orbs. "She isn't what she says she is."

_**(BREAK)**_

"DiNozzo, go home," Gibbs orders strictly as he reenters the office lounge and sits down. The younger agent's facial expression is clueless.

"But, boss, I'll just do this pile and then –," Tony tries to reason, but is cut off by Gibbs' voice. It's not anything he has tried before and the tone is stern and demanding. He shutters slightly because it reminds him of days passed.

"Tony, I want you home. In an hour."

Ziva's head pops up from the paperwork she's filing. Interested, she eavesdrop on the unusual confrontation between the agent-in-charge and the senior agent. They have a special bond between them and this is the first serious argument they've had since she joined the team. She can see the tension between them spring like sparks of negativity in the air. She has always been good at spying on others; but she has always had the talent to see things others do not.

"It's only 1900, boss, I really need to get this done before ..." Tony's eyes flicker to Ziva. ".. before my leave. Sheppard says it's due Monday, or she'll –."

"I'll deal with it," Gibbs replies hastily.

"Boss, I –."

"Ziva, take him home," their team leader orders, and Ziva is surprised to be involved in the fight. Why would Gibbs bring her into this? Her eyes flicker to Tony, much like his did just a minute ago. She wants to ask why but she can sense that Gibbs doesn't like to say things twice. She slowly rises from her desk and packs her things, ready to leave. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the look of bewilderment and defiance Tony is giving Gibbs, like he cannot believe that Gibbs is telling her to go with him. Ziva has learned not to question authority so she waits for Tony, who resistantly begins to grab his gear and leave the offices. Ziva looks over her shoulder, at Gibbs, but doesn't see a smirk over winning the little fight.

She has no idea if Gibbs only expected her to walk him to his car, but when they're at his Mustang, he throws his bag in and looks at her.

"Wanna grab a beer?" he asks sincerely. She quirks a brow at this, since she knows that he was definitely given orders to get home, but reasons that Gibbs didn't say anything about driving directly home. Just get him there. Eventually. She glances at Tony and asks herself if she really wants to go have beers with her partner. They have never been friendly and after that little quarrel today, she doubts they ever will. She can feel the hostility between them. She is about to decline, but then she sees the apology in the sea-green eyes of the senior agent.

"Sure," she stammers. He gestures for her to get in the car and she hesitantly does so.

_**(BREAK)**_

Ten minutes after, Tony pulls the car over. It's a bar named "Catastrophe" and Tony steps out of the car and walks in, expecting her to follow. She is surprised to find out that several of the clientele knows Tony. They exchange hellos and hi's before Tony sits down at the bar, ordering two beers. They are served just as Ziva slips into the bar stool next to him. They sit there in silence for a while until Ziva talk.

"So, why do Gibbs want you out of the office early?" the Israeli questions, sipping her beer. Tony stares at her, probably wondering how much she already knows. He deflects the question.

"Y'know, I'm sorry I yelled at you today. I shouldn't have. Sorry," he says drunkenly although he's not. She doesn't know how to respond. She has been told by her father that she tells the truth so sincerely that the lies become sincere as well. He warned her that they might become natural one day, but she didn't listen. Either way, she decides to keep it simple.

"I accept. I should not have pushed you like that. You can just be quite annoying at times," she tells him bluntly. Music in the background becomes more prominent. She orders two shots for them before DiNozzo can order another beer. Surprise is evident in his features but accepts, his gaze distrusting.

"I learn less and less about you, David," he admits, downing the shot. His voice is sincere and he pronounces her name right. For the first time in the month she has been working for Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism. He has mocked her, taunted her and teased her endlessly and caused her great annoyance, but she has shrugged it off as common DiNozzo policy until earlier today when she decided to strike back and get even. Her own manners surprised her and she regrets the initiative she took. She hopes that this bonding will help their civic partnership. It doesn't take a telepath to know that Tony possesses a great dislike for her. At first Ziva assumed it was because she was an outsider. It is partially that, but also the fact that he despises her the way she despises him. She has grown to evolve past that, and admittedly, Tony seems sincerely sorry for his lashing out.

"Jacob, another shot for my friend!" Tony calls out to the bartender, whose name apparently is Jacob. At least he reacts to it and places two shots in front of them. Ziva is a bit taken back by the new status in Tony's book, but she writes it off as something he just says to the bartender without thinking. She sobers up when she with her peripheral vision sees that the clock on the wall says 9.03 PM., and she promised Gibbs. She sids out of her chair before dragging him off.

"Tony, we need to leave," she says and totters a bit, mostly because she's out of balance. It takes her awhile to convince Tony that it's time and she resorts to using pressure points, to which he snarls but drunkenly totters so she is sure it's safe. The pale moon shines faintly behind the puffy night clouds, and Ziva's certain he barks subtly when she drives him home in his Mustang.

_**(BREAK)**_

It is late when Jethro arrives home. As soon as the door smacks behind him, hurried footsteps run down the stairs and he can hear Kelly's sigh of relief from where he's standing. Even though she is seventeen years old, she worries for him. She worries for him being shot, she worries for him being kidnapped, she worries for him not sleeping properly. That way she reminds him much of her mother, Jethro's wife. Shannon was killed by wers back when Kelly was five years old, so the memories she has of her Mum are vague. This saddens Jethro, but Kelly does her best at being the responsible teen. Tonight she is wearing shorts and a tee stating that the army has nothing in comparison to the marines. Jethro still remembers when she got it. Jethro was dating an Army CID – Holly – and although Kelly is generally okay with him moving on from her mother (sometimes she even encourages it) – she had something against it. Said it was unnatural when he was an ex-marine. Either way, the tee has made him chuckle since Holly and he broke up.

"Dad, you're home," the strawberry-blonde girl says. Her hair was red when she was little but when she grow older, the reddish strands were replaced by a darker blonde. Her eyes are sapphire-blue like his own, but her uniqueness is all Shannon. She is slim like her mother and carries a light weight, and her height is similar to Shannon's.

"Kels, don't you have school tomorrow? It's nearly eleven o'clock," Jethro begins lecturing but Kelly, the true daughter of the fiercest hunter in the DC area, stops him, ranking herself.

"No, dad, I was worried. I even _almost _called Joann," she argues and her father looks strictly at her as if it's the worst scenario.

"Kelly, please tell me you didn't call your grandmother –."

"But then I said to myself; 'self, he's probably staying late in the office and ensuring that DiNozzo comes safely home the day before the lunar phases'," Kelly argues, obviously aware of the duties her father carries on his broad shoulder. Shoulders she has leaned on her entire life, and shoulders that has carried her though emotional stampedes.

Jethro is appalled by the extent of her knowledge, but it makes him smirk. Kelly has a natural talent – some would categorize it as a supernaturalistic ability – to recognize supernaturals. So far, Jethro has managed to keep this a secret. Society is filled with prejudices today and an ability like Kelly's can be used for many menacing things. He doesn't want Kelly to know that side of society until she is at least twenty-five. Or ever.

"Plus I called Jen and made her push you home," Kelly adds, grinning. She wanders to the kitchen, knowing their usual routine; they talk everyday, even if Jethro has a case. Often Kelly has an input that her father has missed. She takes the pot from the hotplate and reveals that she's been making tea. He raises a dominant brow at her timing but she smilingly shrugs it off.

"Howd'ya make Tony leave this time?" she casually asks. Jethro has told her about his mentoring of the wer but he has never told Kelly that her mother was killed by wers. To her, Shannon died in a car accident. At least it makes her more cautious when she is driving a car. The only reasons she has a car is because they both know what is out there; human and supernatural, Jethro doesn't allow his daughter to walk home alone. And he has learnt the hard way that he can't pick her up every time there is a party or a sleepover. He has to learn gradually to let go off her. Luckily, Kelly has admitted that she still needs him.

"I forced Ziva to take him," her dad reveals as he accepts the tea. Kelly has forbidden him (with as much authority that she can muster) to drink coffee when it's past midnight if a case is not urgent, but he knows that she appreciates him not taking more caffeine in after dark. They have a secret oath that she is never to reveal that fact to his agents.

"The new liaison?" Kelly fishes, her brows knitting. Her father hasn't mentioned her much, but she has a way of understanding him better than any of his subordinates. She sits down, sipping her own tea. Freshly brewed, it makes her face red but calms her.

"Yes, the one Jen's has assigned to our team. We still know nothing about her, only that she knows many things about the supernaturals we deal with. She took down a master vampire, remember?" Normally he squirms whenever Kelly mentions his work and he tries to get himself not to share the grotesque themes, but in this case he knows that Kelly would use it as a counter argument.

Kelly nods. "Yeah."

"Today he was barely able to contain himself around her."

"Sparks flying in the office?" Kelly asks giggly like the teenage girl she truly is. But all teasing leaves her face when she spots the seriousness in her father's piercing blue eyes. "All right, sorry..," she mutters quietly but then dodges it. "A wer's anger is not to be toyed with, I know, I know. You've told me a hundred times."

"And you should never forget it," Jethro points out. Then his phone begins to buzz. Caller ID tells him that it's someone from work. Someone he has no idea why is calling him now.

"Hello."

"Gibbs?"

"Who is it?" Kelly asks curiously.

Ziva, he mutes. "What's wrong, David?"

She exhales. "It's Tony, Gibbs.." Regret is evident in her voice. Gibbs clenches his jaw at the thought of what might have happened. There's a certain edge to the Israeli's voice that alerts the grey-haired ex-marine. "We had drinks, and I took Tony home and when we came.." Her voice grows unsteady. ".. someone was there, expecting us."

"Who, Ziva?" His tone alerts his daughter whose eyes flicker to his own.

"Wers, Gibbs. Two of them. They were able to change at will and Tony'd had something to drink, so he couldn't defend himself... it was an unfair fight, Gibbs," she hesitates.

"Are you okay, Ziva? Where are you?"

"I'm still at Tony's apartment. But, Gibbs.."

He bites his lip nervously.

"They said they were friends of Larkin. And then Tony changed."

Jethro wouldn't take any risk. He asked his daughter to dress and then drove to Tony's, no matter what kinds of classes she had tomorrow. Now he is standing outside the wer's apartment downtown, a frightened though mostly confused Kelly in his car. He has called both Tim and Abby, the latter because of her instincts and the friendship between them. The memory is foggy in his mind, but the next on his list is Jen, who is currently on her way, talking to Kelly whilst driving.

"Ziva!" Gibbs calls, making sure Kelly has locked the doors of the Sedan. He doesn't know how bad it is; two wers able to change at will versus a drunken young wer and a woman whose abilities are unconfirmed. Would he be walking into a bloodbath or a distraught Israeli?

The woman in question shows her face when he walks though the door that's agape. There's claw marks on the hinges, explaining that at least one wolf left the apartment alive. His liaison stands, composed yet shaken, in the middle of the room where a panting man is gasping. It takes Jethro a moment to realize how it is that Ziva is upset; knife-inflicted cuts and lacerations covers his exposed torso. Ziva's knife is out, preparedness evident in her brown eyes. Apparently torture is another of Ziva's "abilities". How delightful. The man is bleeding, which causes Jethro not to notice Ziva at first. The living room is the obvious evidence of a transformation. It had demonstrably been too crowded for the human body to transcend into a large, bear-sized wolf. Claw marks cover walls, thresholds and furniture. Ziva's ragged breath is one of anger and resentment.

Jethro leans down to put a weight on the wer's chest. He groans in pain, flickering his eyes between Ziva and Jethro, but realizing that neither will show any mercy. He spits blood out, having bitten someone. Presumably Tony. "What does Larkin want with Tony?"

"Larkin gives, Larkin takes, Hunter, you know the rules of the Initiation." The wer tries his best tough guy act but eventually fails. Fear flicker in his eyes. Ziva looks confused but determined.

"Again I ask, what does Larkin want with my agent?" The words are spat and fierce.

"You'll have to wait and see. Be on the lookout for bloody corpses these days, Hunter," the man coughs uncontrollably just as Jen arrives, Kelly in tow. They arrive early enough to see the life seeping out of the wer, his last breath a loud gasp. The Elemental is dressed for politics, her slacks and heels out-of-place in this grotesque scene. She looks around, horrified.

"Ziva, are you okay?" First then Jethro notices the huge gash on her arm. It's from an unkept claw and Jethro knows by personal experience that it must hurt like hell. Before Jen can act, Kelly breaks the silence.

"She'll heal," the seventeen-year-old states coldly. Jen looks at her, surprised, and Ziva both offended and intrigued.

"Who are you?"

"How do you know?"

Kelly shrugs, but begins to examine the wound. "I'm his daughter, and I just know. Like I know Jen's an Elemental and I can see he's a wer. Or, rather, was. You, you're something different. Indefinite," Kelly tells. "And it's not a bite. She won't turn."

Jethro, satisfied with that answer, begins to question Ziva. "What happened?"

Methodically, the Israeli begins to describe the events of the night. "We came down the hallway and Tony fumbled with his keys but essentially got the door opened. He was a little drunk, so I helped him. Suddenly, two wers step out of the shadows and transform –."

"You sure the door was locked? That they didn't follow you from where you were?"

The intense anger of his accusation is directed at him, and she gets defensive. "Yes, the door was locked and no, we were not followed. I recognize a tail when I see one."

"All right, then, go on." Kelly is finishing the arm after they conclude it is her worst injury.

"They were in control of their change, so Tony stumbled at first. They wrestled and then one of the wolves, confident that he could allow his friend there –." She points her head in the dead wer's direction. "– to manage Tony, he launched at me. We fought, and I got my knife close enough for me to gut him, but then I was thrown back by something. It surprised the wer, too."

Her eyes face Jethro. "Tony changed. Right there, in the middle of the living room."

"I thought you said DiNozzo had no control over his transformations," Jen argues. Both Jethro and Kelly simultaneously declare:

"He doesn't."

Ziva continues. "At some point, Tony managed to harm his wer enough for him to see that my temporarily blackout had created an advantage for the wer I had been fighting. The moment the wer bit me, Tony went amok. I don't know how to describe it properly, but he launched himself at the wolf with enough strength for me to find an opening to knife the wer. It gave up and Tony followed. I couldn't stop him," Ziva apologizes (or, the closest thing Gibbs allows as an apology).

The three of them now notice the bloodied pant leg of Ziva's cargo pants. Her ankle is messed up. Soon Abby and Tim arrive, horror on their faces. Jethro immediately instructs Tim to try ad resurrect the ghost of the wer for his eyes. Shocked at the sight, Tim attempts while Jethro informs Abby what has happened; even though she might already know due to her likeliness to envision what happened. Jethro knows that the room makes her on edge thanks to the obvious scent of wer. She has grown to tolerate the stench of Tony, but the air of other wers cling to her nostrils like a disease.

"Abby, you okay?" a weak voice asks. "'Cause if you need to, I can step out with you for a moment," Kelly offers. It is almost not noticeable, but she is unraveling from horror. Her face shies away from the horrid sight of the dead wer, and she tries to act stoic. Abby, who is taking in the scene with her super-senses. It comes in handy to have a dhampir on his team to analyze the scene with the precision of a modern mass spectrometer. They don't have the time to bag and tag all the possible evidence, their only way of gaining more information is dead, and they have no possible way of tracking down an incontrollable wer that has spontaneously changed the night before the full moon. Jethro isn't happy about it and mentally curses himself for not activating the tracking device under the skin of Tony's neck.

"I'll be fine, Kelly," the goth says absentmindedly as she zooms in on a spot next to the dead wer. "He has a name tag," Abby states suddenly, then looks at Jen and Jethro for permission to touch the corpse. Their leaders nod, and she kneels down and pushes his long hair aside. Like most wers, he possessed a great deal of hair due to the stress between transformations. Technically, he had died in-between the state of wolf and man.

"'Chris Roan'," she reads aloud. Without looking at the ID, she scents him with a disgusted expression on her face. "Blood-type AB positive. Rare. But it's not only his blood that's here. It's the other wer, the one that escaped," the dhampir concludes with certainty after having recreated the scenario.

"The one I gutted," Ziva says from the corner.

Bluntly, Abby zooms in on her. "The one who bit you."

Horror is written on everybody's faces, maybe except Kelly's, who has already stated that she won't turn into a wer if bitten. Jen looks appalled, and so does Jethro and Tim, but Abby looks intrigued. Tim hesitantly touches her shoulder and she retreats.

"Bitten?" Jen tries to sound authoritative, but fails. Worry is eminent. Worry for her friend because she knows that a bite like that should either have her seizing on the ground or changing into a werewolf. Jethro's hand subconsciously moves to the gun he keeps for taking down wers. The one he nearly killed Tony with three years ago.

"I'm fine," she says, at the same time as Abby says:

"You're not. Even if the disease doesn't alter you genetically, the bite has severed through tissue and muscle. You really should get that looked after, Ziva."

"I'll heal," the Israeli deflects and pulls the pant leg up. Even Kelly is curious about this one; her ankle is re-altering itself beneath her skin. The blood already shed is still there but the wound is almost healed. Somehow, Jethro is not surprised by this.

"How?" Tim asks, flabbergasted.

"I'm a healer. It's a part of my blood lineage. That's why Jenny wants me here." The news is both relieving but also eerie. It means she could have saved the wer and she intentionally chose not to. Jethro eyes her with a newfound caution. He is beginning to understand what kind of image his wer agent was creating of her.

"How can we find Tony, guys?" They all expect it to be Tim McGee that's asking, but it's the shivering Kelly Gibbs that with her sapphire-blue eyes clears the throat of the conversation.

"We don't have to." Jethro's voice is dark, his face gloomy. His eyes don't leave the tortured body of Chris Roan. When Jen, Kelly, Tim, Abby and Ziva stare at him, he continues. "Larkin is the alpha wer of the Craven pack, the one who claimed territory in New York a few years back." They all know the pack of vicious wolves he's talking about. The one the news channels called mountains wolves gone crazy who were attacking humans in Central Park. "He personally turned Tony. I arrived there on the night of Tony's first full moon," Gibbs reveals sadly.

"Oh my God.." Jen whispers in the background. It is something she hasn't been told by Jethro, even though she's his confidante. Even though Jethro recommended Tony and even though he vouched for Tony's lycanthropy. The fact that the virus that had made him a wer came from the most sadistic and vicious wer the eastern seaboard has ever seen changes everything.

"I took down a lot of his pack the night I found Tony. Some were killed, others were arrested and prosecuted. Taken in, as they say. I don't know what Larkin had in plans for Tony, but it was something bigger," Jethro says, pushing away the guilt from lying; the 'big plans' started with having Tony kill a college student. "The Craven wers do not believe in confinement, so let let him roam freely during his first change. When I found him... that's the only time I've seen Tony change at will."

"But what's Larkin doing here?" Abby asks, confusion written on her face. The paleness is familiar in the dim, grey setting. Her black clothes, broken posture, and full lips are the ones of a scared teen, one that matches the one of Kelly. Only her being is just as supernatural as the vision before her eyes.

"My guess would be revenge," Jethro suggests. "Or to collect," Ziva interrupts. She hasn't said anything for awhile, so her breath is back to normal and she's composed. She's eerily calm, even when Jethro begins to ask her why she thinks that. "Because of what the wer said. He called you a Hunter, which makes me assume that he knows who you are. It is quite possible that he even knows you personally from back then. You heard it, too." She looks directly into Gibbs' orbs. "He was talking about the Initiation."


	3. Cries of the Wolves: Closing In

**A/N: **Oh, thank you for the reviews! I'm excited myself where this is going, and planning four parts, "Cries of the Wolves" being the first one. I hope you like the OCs of this story though I try to create as little as possible, only putting names to a few. What do you like about my resurrection of Jenny and Kelly? I thought, hey, we need a sinister Gibbs but also a caring father since the team isn't as close – yet! – as on the show.

_I apologize to any confusion with the first chapter, as it reads "Self Control" one place, but is named "Tension That Cannot Be Faked" in another. I will try to fix it as soon as possible._

**Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of NCIS**

**Chapter III: Closing In**

Jethro Gibbs takes action. He sends Abby home with Tim, knowing that if anyone comes near them, both the victims of the wolves with alert Tim, and Abby's senses will notice strangers. He understands Larkin's logic; intaking the wers in, he removed someone from his pack. Even killed some. Tim and Abby don't allow it at first, but when Jethro's thunderous voice rises, they do as they are told, even if they want to go back to NCIS to analyze the facts. When they're gone, he looks at Jen with an apologetic expression and she understands.

"No, Jethro..." she warns him, but he refuses to listen. The leader instincts have kicked in, and so have the instincts that kept him alive in his wer hunter days. The grey-haired hunter points at Kelly.

"Kels, you're with Jen until I say not to. You're going home with her. I don't want you near our house, understood?"

Kelly nods but they stay, wanting to see what he'll do about Ziva; it is her partner that's missing so she has no-one to go to, and Abby already advised her to go to an emergency room. But her deathly glare turns defiantly when he rests his eye on her. She reloads her gun with the silver bullets and is ready albeit with bloody clothes. She sends him a 'what-do-you-want-to-do-about-me' glare and awaits orders. "He's my partner, Gibbs."

"Ziva, you're with me. You saw these wers, and you are quick. Besides, your talent might prove needed. I have a list of places these wers would consider worthy territory in DC." He doesn't add an "understood?" because he knows that she has been trained to obey orders and if it was him in her place, he'd do anything to be the one to revenge this sort of kidnapping of his partner. He is no fool to the lethalness of Ziva David, but he hopes that she will keep in mind that regenerative powers need time to heal a body, and no matter how quick she is, she has already been taken aback by one wer this night.

_**(BREAK)**_

The ride is silent. Jen can sense the fury and disappointment coming off Kelly in waves. Fortunately for her, it keeps Kelly from seeing Jen's worry and nervousness. She has never been alone with a kid before. Sure, she has interrogated a few teenage ghouls back in her day, but this is Jethro's daughter which automatically makes her heart flutter at just the mention of failing. Jethro expects her to keep Kelly safe, and she will, but the redhead has never been more nervous while driving (not taking her first driving lesson into account). She doesn't have any children herself and never really had a desire to get any. Sure, she likes kids, but they have a tendency to find out secrets. And Kelly being Jethro's daughter only makes matters much more static. Add in this new power that Jethro has never mentioned.

They pull up to the Sheppard estate. Kelly glances at the manor and frowns but doesn't comment. She opens the car door and silently makes her way to the door step. "So, you and my dad are close?"

The question takes Jen by surprise. "We used to be nemeses. I was the unlucky agent that always somehow happened to be present at the crime scenes your dad were at. He's never told you?" Jen asks, a bit surprised. She has seen in Jethro how close they are. She just assumed that Jethro had told his daughter about their meeting.

"Until you became the CEO of this gig?" Kelly questions casually. She already knows the answer, but tries to kickstart the conversation. She has already realized that her father is out there with Ziva, returning to his old ways. They walk into the living room of the grand manor, which is so much different from Tony's living room which is a wreckage and a constant reminder of the state of their lives. Kelly's mind flashes back to the claw marks and the blood and the body and her father killing –.

She stops the flow of thoughts early enough to realize that she has frozen.

Jen nods. "I was recommended by my boss. Back then Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism was completely new, an idea from the Department of Defense..," she trails off.

"And since you had intimate knowledge, you being an Elemental an'all," Kelly clarifies. Jen arches a brow at this, but then remembers her unusual ability.

"What's with this gift of yours, I mean, really? It's intriguing. You knew about Tony and Ziva and now me.. I know some of this might be from conversations with your dad, but Ziva? Only I am aware of such details.."

Kelly sits down on her sofa, looking around the the many antiquities. The mahogany-furnished manor is stylish and looks luxurious; worn yet unused. She can sense that Jen isn't there much and knows that the manor previously belonged to her father – Mr. Sheppard. Her dad told her that once. "I don't know how it works, exactly. I just know things. It's not like mind-reading, or premonitions, or that sorta things. But, you know how dad's an augmenter, right?" She doesn't wait for an answer, even though Jen nods. "I think I've inherited that trait. The abnormal genetic code, as you call it. I can sense it. Like when Abby steps into a room and is able to see what's happened in her mind," Kelly explains.

"Kels, that's... amazing," Jen replies. "How long?"

The strawberry-blonde shrugs. Her sapphire eyes find hers. "I'm a spot-eye. It's natural. Has been there as long as I remember.. I don't wanna talk about it." Kelly changes the subject before Jen can get a chance to comment her sudden shyness. They've known each other – or of each other – the last five years, but they are not comfortable with each other. It's obvious, even though Kelly is a smart kid. Good instincts, too. Suddenly she breaks down, tired of keeping it all bottled up.

"What do you think my dad is gonna do to Larkin?" she suddenly asks, tears breaking free from her eyes. An astounded Jen instinctually squeezes her hand. Jen knows she has been through a lot, and that she cares very much about them. She worries for her father, because he is all she has; yeah, her grandmother doesn't count because every time she sees Joann, her grandmother is criticizing the way Jethro is bringing her up. Amongst werewolves, freaks of nature, vampires and witches. Not influences Joann approves of, but she has never spoken of the fact that both Gibbses possess paranormal abilities. Kelly suspects that she doesn't know.

Jen's maternal instincts kick in and she automatically puts her arms around the 17-year-old who leans into her. The sofa is not crowded but Jen can sense the confusion and helplessness tearing Kelly apart. "I don't know. But I worked one case where Larkin was a prime suspect. If he has Tony, I'm glad that it's your father who's tracking him down."

"You're not worried?"

"Of course I am, sweetie. You saw me earlier. Ziva's my friend and Tony is very dear to me," Jen says, finding herself stroking the face of the teenage girl. She is about to stop herself, but sees Kelly's face relax.

"You knew about Ziva? Her... weirdness?" Kelly's question is valid but difficult to answer. Her hesitation is the tell-tale mark of the fact that she, neither, knows about the true nature of the Israeli.

"I knew she was a healer, yes. But I find it very unusual that she is not affected by the bite," she answers in a manner of political correctly speaking. Like her dad, Kelly finds it boring.

Kelly pouts provocatively, then points out what she knows. Lays the facts all out on the table to the CEO of her father's workplace. "That's because a healer isn't everything she is. I can see an essence not belonging. But I couldn't focus in that place. It was just.. horrible.. You saw it, right?" Kelly's tone is panicky. "The way the wer..." She sinks, then buries her head in the cushions, resting her arms in Jen's lap. Tears are forming in her young eyes. Sometimes Jen forgets that she is still a child, even though she is so intelligent and drives around in an SUV. Jen has to be honest with herself; she is shaken that what Jethro and Ziva did to that wer essentially ended his life. Chris Roan will never live to see the moon again. But for Kelly to witness the darkness take Jethro over – it wasn't intentional. "How much do you know about your dad's work?"

Kelly looks confused. "He's an investigator, if that's what you mean.."

"No, the work he did before he joined NCIS. Before he got the team. The reason why the wer called him Hunter, like Ziva said," Jen explains, observing how the seventeen-year-old Gibbs puts the puzzle together.

"He tracked down wers. And killed them. I am no fool; I know my dad's not perfect. He has been hunting wers for longer than I can remember. The deal in New York was back when I stayed with Diane, my ex-stepmom," Kelly answers, her voice hoarse from sadness. Her blue eyes flicker to the sofa table and then lingers at Jen's face.

Jen's throat is suddenly sore. Does she have the right to tell the teen? "He made enemies. His hatred of the wers didn't bring him any peace, but I have only seen him hesitate once when it came to taking a ferocious wer's life."  
>"Tony," Kelly says indefinitely. "He is a nice wer. I don't understand why dad has resentment against the race. Sure, some of them kill people and it's wrong so that I understand, but.. Dad doesn't like wers. I can see it on his face every time he looks at Tony."<p>

Jen sighs heavily, knowing it's not her story to tell, but that Kelly needs to hear it to understand her father's cruelty and hatred. Knowing that Jethro might never forgive her. "It's because of what happened to your mom, Kelly."

_**(BREAK)**_

It's almost funny how earlier today, all Ziva had to worry about was her not pissing off Tony too much, knowing that he couldn't transform without the light of the full moon beaming on him. Tonight, Ziva looks like a wreck as she steps into the car, eyeing Tony's Mustang and immediately looks down into her lap, ashamed. It was her responsibility to get Tony safe home. It was her who hadn't declined a drink and ended up getting Tony drunk, essentially leading to him being unable to fight the wers that had been waiting for him. It is. All. Her. Fault. She stares down into her lap as Gibbs throws a duffel bag to his daughter – Kelly – who is going with Jen for safety. Ziva wishes that it is her; going to safety with Tony. Frustrated, she tightens her fits till her knuckles turn white. Tony is her partner; and she couldn't protect him. She feels worse than the extent of her wounds. They are healing, fast, due to her accelerated anger. If motivation is usually yellow, hers is burning an intense, red flame.

"David," Gibbs says harshly, bringing her out of her own thoughts. She looks at him and sees the anger, the worry and the calmness where he sees guilt and shame. She quickly composes herself, checking her gun. If possible, Gibbs drives more reckless than usual, putting the car to an abrupt halt at intersections and breaking traffic laws as he goes. Ziva doubts he would pull over if the police pursued him. She understands his reasoning.

"I need your mind clear, understood? We'll get DiNozzo back, but we need to be focused. I saw the damage not caused by wers in there and it was impressive. Don't fail me now," he says strictly like a drill sergeant; only for her own good. Then the grey-haired Hunter looks down at her bloody clothes. Some is hers, some isn't. Violent images flash through her mind. "You need to change clothes," he notes, non-negotiable.

"Gibbs, I seriously doubt that we can afford the time to –" Ziva argues.

"If we find the wers, they're not gonna flee because you wear damn bloody clothes, David! So, where do you live?" Once again, he is the tough guy but that's also what she needs right now. Somebody to pull her back in and anchor her so her rage can do most damage to the best purpose. Someone to channel her anger toward. Gibbs will be her anchor and Larkin her target. She will have blood on her hands by the time this night is over, moon or not.

She gives him the address and the car spins around, driving hazardous through Georgetown. Ziva, who has always found Tony's disfavor for riding shotgun with Gibbs amusing, but she has to admit, even she is a little unadjusted when they reach her apartment complex. She jumps out, but hears the stern murmur of Gibbs: "And shower!" and then easily sprints up to her place, unlocking her door. Leaving a trail of bloody clothes on her way to the closet (deciding that she can clean it later, _when Tony is safe_), she quickly grabs a long-sleeved black shirt, cargo pants and her absurdly silent combat boots. Peeling off her clothes, she turns on the water and quickly showers the scent of blood and all bad things to come off. She dries herself with a towel, not really paying attention because she hears her team leader enter the apartment.

Unlike Tony, who claims that he always appears out of nowhere, Ziva has always been able to pinpoint whenever the Hunter was around. Ziva's theory is that Gibbs purposely uses his augmentation ability to weaken the wer senses Tony possess enough for him to startle the cocky agent. It is quite hilarious, but this time, it makes her even faster and when she has dressed herself, her hair is still damp, but she scoops it in a horsetail, acknowledging to Gibbs that she is ready by clearing her throat. The grey-haired Hunter nods, then leaves the apartment, just giving her enough time to lock the door and get her leather coat thrown on her.

"Soo, this list you have.." Ziva begins, engaging in conversation. She knows that Gibbs easily could have driven off – and almost expected him to – while she was showering, to hunt them down himself. What they are about to do is dangerous, but Ziva can only think of how strong the wers that attacked them were. And Tony is with them, presumably.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you have it?" Ziva asks, sensing that she already know the answer. Now that she knows he has a daughter, she should have thought that he might spend his spare time with her, but she wouldn't put it past him to be hunting down wers in D.C. But with cameras and surveillance everywhere, and even the wers being aware of the costs of exposure, the places wers could roam freely are limited. They must be. The way he doesn't answer the question directly tells her all she needs to know. Especially with his "don't ask, you don't wanna know" expression.

"Where is it?"

"I looked it over before I came up. I've narrowed it down to three places."

"Three? In entire D.C.?" Ziva looks surprised. She would have thought it was ten, or maybe fifteen at most, but three? She glances at him for reconfirmation.

"Larkin is a picky guy," Gibbs merely replies, seeing her look at him once more. He shrugs, but she can see the anger burning behind the marvelous ice-blue eyes. He is not thrilled about Larkin's thugs being the company Tony is in. "Wers require strength to keep their inner beast controlled. Either Tony has suppressed his, and has changed back, or..," he trails off, not willing to voice the other possibility.

"Or the inner beast has taken over," Ziva finishes darkly. She realizes that they have to count in that possibility. Still, something within her struggles to shoot her new partner. Sure, he can be a big pain in the ass, obnoxious to the point where his extinction would be comical, but despite the fact that she has spent the last month loathing his immature personality and his pesky, womanizing persona, she finds it difficult to visualize herself harming him.

"Have you dealt with wers before?" Gibbs asks, not to engage in casual conversation, but to get to the facts. Ziva can understand; he is tired of not knowing what she has been through and what she hasn't.

"No, not directly." Hoping he is satisfied with that answer, she inhales slowly. Of course, she should have known he isn't. He is facing her, looking interrogative.

"'Not directly'?" he repeats quizzically.

"I had a friend who hung out with a wer. Let us just say, she is not alive today," Ziva says remorsefully. She knows that she could have warned Hanah better, because of what her father taught her, but she didn't think then that the girl's boyfriend would harm her. She was mistaken, but it had also been Hanah's idea to sleep over at a full moon.

Gibbs does not ask further questions and neither does Ziva.

_**(BREAK)**_

It is with an moping eeriness and helpless silence that the agent and his sulking companion arrive at their headquarters. Tim has already called Ducky and James out of courtesy, wondering how the wer would be removed from Tony's apartment. Not that the wer deserves the respectful autopsy Ducky will do, Abby thinks with hatred. She can barely decide whether to burst into tears or to throw a childish tantrum right there in her lab. But, not no, she reminds herself. Tony needs them, especially if he's with other wers. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she exhales loudly.

"Oh Abby," Tim says comfortingly. Quietly, he pulls her in for a friendly hug. Sensing his hesitation but no really doing anything about it, Abby leans into him, sniffing into his chest. It is not like hugging Gibbs, but there's a calming comfort that distracts Abby for awhile until the lingering scent of his blood calling awakes her vampiric instincts. She pulls away softly, masking the fact that she is getting hungry in a situation like this. Upon seeing Tim's awkward smile, she returns one whose impact is rewarding.

"Thanks, Tim, I really needed that," she whispers throatily, her voice sober from crying. She turns on various machines as they pass by, Tim putting out the samples he managed to take from the scene. Abby hangs her furry coat (imitated fur, since the real deal makes her either nauseas or hungry – especially when she thinks it's animal cruelty) on the back of a chair, re-altering her vision to the one of her predatory nature. Colors change, smells grow stronger to the point of repulsion and details intensify. Due to the slight disadvantage of all senses multiplying themselves at once, she can hear Timothy McGee's heartbeat loud and clear as if she was leaning against his chest like before. She has learnt to control this.. explosion of instincts but she cannot hide the obvious; her talents, however useful, come from the darkness within.

Regretfully, she examines the samples, recalling the scene they arrived to. The blood acts odd, trying to keep itself from drying out. Like its source, it won't die. Territorial instinct immediately makes her focus shut down, and she bares her teeth like her paternal genes tell her to. During the examination, she keeps her face turned away from Tim's sight, not wanting him to see her like this. The fury that runs through her veins right now is the ancient blood bond between vampires and wers; a trait she has inherited herself. It took her weeks to even be in the same room as Tony, her darker side wanting to rip his throat out while she immediately liked him. He is a funny guy and hadn't he been wer, she would have gone out for drinks with him, teased him when he came to her lab and flirted endlessly with him, but her vampiric side doesn't allow that. He's a wer, she's a vampire, end of story. Tony remains a good friend, albeit one she cannot be in the room with for more than ten minutes without beginning to snarl unintentionally at.

But that doesn't mean she wants him kidnapped by wolves. Other wers aren't as friendly as Tony. He is the only wer her human side genuinely likes and usually she likes everyone. No, wers are supposed to be grumpy creatures who attack by default. Tony is a likable guy, even though he is a ladies' man. Sighing, she puts down the sample. "It's fussing," she declares hopelessly, then pouts at her lack of information.

"What do you mean?" Tim asks, not understanding the extent of her power. It's hard to describe, but she cannot see everything clearly. Supernatural beings have a tendency of remaining in the dark, and while she can see the molecules sprinting around within the blood, the secret remains a secret. She is also slightly repulsed by the blood, it being the one of the wer.

"I mean, it's definitely wer. But, it's acting weird. Trying to keep itself from drying out," Abby explains, but knows that Tim will not get it.

"Can I see?" the light-haired agent asks eagerly, then conjures up a microscope from the dusty shelves. Abby rarely uses them, often people just believes her findings – and she gets that Tim is fascinated by the wer blood – so she keeps them on a shelf for show (or, on rare occasions, if they are on a joined case, they have a human agent over – no reasons to unnerve the newcomers).

"You can't, Timmy," Abby says sorrily. "The microscope can't detect it. Its resolution isn't good enough. Plus, it's instinctual, too. I can't really explain it. It's a supernatural factor." Accepting that answer, albeit disappointed, Tim pushes the microscope out of reach so it won't be in the way of her work. He seems sorry that he can't help with anything, there being no technological evidence on-scene. Abby senses his sadness and gives him a comforting hug.

"We'll get him back, Timmy.. I promise!"

_**(BREAK)**_

_Vampires! Blood-sucking scumbags, that's what you are, you freak..._ Tim is awoken by a murmur. At first he thinks it's his own thoughts, but they are distinctly un-him, so he blinks, realizes he has fallen asleep in Abby's lab, and is currently on the futon Abby keeps in her lab (never say that being a dhampir makes your maternal instincts disappear). Tim is fond of Abby, and he has no qualms about her being half un-dead. Her heart is beating strongly in her chest and her laughter is real. Aside from her being a little pale and getting small headaches in the sun (and hungering after blood, he adds silently), she is a regular human being. Well, as regular as one can be in the NCIS unit.

Realizing that Abby must've lifted him on it (and being slightly uncomfortable that the forensic scientist can carry him), he blushes embarrassed, then decides to clear his throat. Before he can even open his mouth, he sees that Abby is working undisturbed by her station.

_Disgrace to mankind. Yes, no wonder you cannot find your precious mall-rat.._, Tim intersects and realizes that they are not thoughts of his own. Firstly, he would never speak ill of Abby; secondly, they have an edge to them, like an accent. He looks around, trying not to disturb Abby (though she already knows he's awake by now), and then sees the source of these malicious thoughts.

It's the wer from the apartment. Or rather, it was the wer from the apartment. Chris Roan, as far as he can recall. He looks exactly like he did last time Tim saw him _(bloodied, pale, dead)_ only, he is yelling scornfully at Abby, scoffing and being a jerk. Abby is as well as deaf when it comes to them, the only advantage he has ever had over her (not that he considers it a gift). Being a medium, he has seen his share of both cooperative and un-cooperative departed, ranging from "dearly" to outright dirtbags the world wouldn't miss. Something makes it seem that Chris Roan belongs to the latter.

"Hey, stop that!" Tim says, brows trying to match his unsatisfied expression. Abby's head pops up, but then realizes what's going on. She has also been around Tim long enough to know when Tim is talking to himself and when he's guiding the dead.

Chris Roan jerks, then spins around with an astounded expression. "You can see me?" he asks, gawking. The stubby chin tells Tim that Roan had been a guy who shaved a lot. Maybe all wers are like that; Tim hasn't really had the chance to ask Tony, but then again, the wer would only make a joke about it. Plus, he doesn't like to talk about his flawed lycanthropy.

Tim clears his throat. "Yes, I can, and I know who you are."

"Then who're you?" Roan questions in disbelief. His body language becomes defensive and tense, yet he doesn't quite believe. "And where am I?"

"You're dead, Roan, and I am Tim, a friend of Tony, who I assume you know of," Tim says bitterly. Tim has seen the damage Roan did with the other wer. It is hard to tell apart what wer has done most damage. Tim finds it hard to believe the preliminary findings Abby has done, which confirms that Tony did, indeed, transform into his wolf form, one of which wers find natural. Tim has done his research when it comes to wers, especially since one of his team members is of the shapeshifting race.

A smug smirk makes its way to Roan's lips and Tim wishes for the first time that he could hit Roan and not mere air. He feels his knuckles tighten and his jaw clench. "So the novice putted up a fight, eh? I realize what Larkin sees in him. Well, at least I didn't die for nothing. My pack will be proud," the arrogant wer with the dim-blue eyes replies. He scoffs tauntingly. "Working with blood-suckers," he says under his breath like it is beneath him.

"Hey! Talk nice," Tim interjects. He won't listen to somebody saying bad things about Abby. And especially not when it's untrue. "And she's not a blood-sucker."

"She sure smells like one, buddy, and if it walks like a duck, quarks like a duck, looks like a duck and smells like a duck...," Chris trails off. He is realizing which buttons to push. Tim has to look away. Sometimes he hates his so-called gift.

"Well, you are mistaken," Tim replies smartly. _At half of it._

"Whatever."

Tim is trying to figure out why he needs to see the wer who attacked Tony and Ziva leading to Tony impulsively changing and Ziva being hurt – or whatever she was. Then he gets an idea.

"Well, if you're so annoyed with this, then help me. I can let you be at peace, if you help me," he lies, hoping it's convincing. With Tony, it is impossible to lie to his face, but, like with the sense of smell, Roan's senses must be fading with death.

He looks pissed. "How can I know that for sure?" he asks grumpily, agitated because he is realizing that he cannot go as he pleases. For a powerful wer who is able to change at will, it must be a terrible loss. Tim finds himself smirking.

"All right, what do you wanna know?" The roan-coated wer (Tim has found out that the color of wer's human hairs are usually the color of the fur) sighs heavily and makes a disgusted expression at the thought of working with a vampire, but then calms down.

"How did you know where to find Tony?" Interrogative, calm voice. Good, Tim.

Roan shrugs. "Followed the scent."  
>"Where did you know which scent to follow?"<p>

Second reply comes easily. "Larkin told us."

_**(BREAK)**_

The room _(assumption) _is dimly lit, clad in darkness and a terrible smell hags in the air like burnt flesh and decay mixed with bad pipe work. It smells like a junkie died in a public restroom. And then was lit aflame. Sense of smell is what comes first as Tony awakes. He has passed out. His wer senses are second to come. As far as he can tell, he is alone. Yet he does not relax, because the chill wind leaves goosebumps on his arms and a stench of other wers hang in the air, thick like sirup. Normally he has no trouble dealing with wers, but he can sense the hierarchy that makes him bare his teeth. Then, like he is hit by a truck, all senses float into his body and he discovers that he isn't where he remembers being. The last thing he remembers... the last thing he remembers...

His memory is blank and he reckons it's been awhile since he has been conscious. He tries madly to recall and dim memories of laughing with a woman slowly makes its way back into chronological order. He sobers up painfully. The woman. It was Ziva! It doesn't make sense to him, because he and Ziva despise each other, but the more he sobers up, the more is confirmed. He remembers apologizing to her. Almost attacking her in the bull-pen. God, did he do something to hurt her?

The last time he had a blackout like this was when.. was when.. Tony shakes his head. Soundless images of horror flash effortlessly through his mind, bringing him back to the dreadful night he can't even remember properly now. It has been almost three years and six months since Jethro found him after he killed a college girl in the blind sheet of his first change. It is a secret he carries within him, something he hasn't yet told anyone (Gibbs knows, and he suspects Jen of knowing, due to their time spent together). He has an innocent girl's blood on his hands, the taste of her copper blood on his teeth – though the blood in his wolf form tastes like a mouth-watering Pinot. The spicy taste depends on the source.

Tony stops his train of thought, horrified about way it wounds. It is his Wer surfacing, and suddenly he can find the moon calling. How long has he been out? He tries to stand up, but realizes he is chained the moment the huge door is opened. A fellow wer with alpha essence (that makes Tony wanna peel a layer of skin off) steps into the shadows.

"Finally," a deep-throated, reeking voice says. Had he he not been a wer, he would have been naturally intimidated by him, but Tony's instincts only tell him that this new wer is a threat.

Kenneth Larkin has only grown more powerful in the last three years. His scarred face – from a rivaling wer trying to take over the pack – is still the first thing Tony sees when his eyes fall upon Larkin's face. Of course, back when Tony wandered New York dry for company, Kenny was there, offering comradeship and a bar partner. If he had only known Larkin's plans to turn him back then, everything would have been different. He wouldn't have had to chain himself up thrice a month to keep his bloodthirsty, inner wer contained.

As if reading his mind, the alpha wer sits down, forcing Tony's chin up to level their eyes with a firm hand. Twin orbs of sea-green meet, and a feral, malicious smirk tucked Larkin's sweaty lips into place. Tony shutters mentally but keeps his gaze defiant. He will not show his fear. He cannot stand the scent of Larkin; he has been alone from wers for so long that ancient instincts are drying him from any effort to remain less hostile than he wants. After a staring match that seems to go on forever – but might be few minutes, due to Tony's exhaustion – Larkin speaks. The cruelty in his voice is enough to hunt any doubt of Tony's fate away.

"Hello, brother."

* * *

><p>Let me know what you think!<em> Review<em>


	4. Cries of the Wolves: Craven's Demands

**Chapter IV: Craven's Demands**

_Abby's lab, NCIS office_

"What do you mean by he told you? How?"

Abby is surprised to hear the edginess in Timmy's voice. She has realized he is talking to the dead, and while it sounds crazy, it is perfectly normal within NCIS. She always seems out of place and invasive when she is listening in on him (though listening is a skill she has intimate knowledge in), eavesdropping on her friends. Setting the program, she quietly leaves the lab. She cannot control her hearing right now, Tony's kidnapping being so recent. It has been two hours since the team met in Tony's apartment and she has analyzed everything they had. Apart from the minute it took her to place Tim on the futon (he is so peaceful when he is asleep – contrary to now), she hasn't left the monitor. Now her eyes are sore from the intensity and she needs fresh air. She realizes she has forgotten her coat, but doesn't go back. Dhampirs don't feel cold, which she knows by experience. And where she is going – where the helplessness is driving her – she won't need it.

Biting her lip and finding the taste of blood in her mouth suitable, she stops by Autopsy before going. She cannot just sit here, doing nothing! Where she is going, Tim cannot come, mostly out of his own safety. But she doesn't want him worrying, and the director has forbidden her to compel any of the employees (even gone as far as to use witchcraft – the entire month after, Abby was nauseous by the sight of anyone), so she has to tell someone where she is going. Right now, Tim is busy with a ghost.

"Oh, Abigail!" Ducky's voice is filled with genuineness and happiness. He is a handsome man, compassionate and without prejudices. Had he been her age, she would have gone out with him a long time ago. However, she sees Donald as an uncle rather than someone to date. He has interesting stories to tell, and even without his telepathic ability, he would be able to sense what is going on. He always seems to know what Abby is thinking, even though she is immune to his craft.

"Ducky," Abby says sadly. "I don't know what to do –!" she complains, a wrecked shadow of her cheerful self. She hasn't had a good couple of days. But then, neither has Tony, and everyone who is desperately working on his case, the vampire case forgotten.

Someone clears their throat, and Abby embarrassingly blushes, realizing they are not alone. Grace Warren, twin sister of Jimmy Palmer and fond admirer of her Timmy _(a pang of jealousy almost starts her heartbeat)_, gorgeous with her ginger ringlets, long legs and foreseeing eyes, stands next to the old scotsman, clearly not satisfied with being interrupted, though she tries to conceal it. Rather badly when her scrutinizer is a dhampir.

"Oh, Grace, I didn't see you." The attempt at sounding genuinely sorry fails.

"Miss Warren and I were just discussing a case of hers, Abby, but I am sure that whatever you have to say are more pressing matters, taking the situation into consideration." His words are polite, and he acts as if he is oblivious to the tension in the room. Luckily Abby can contain her inner beast, something Grace doesn't seem to sense. The harbinger is standing, hesitation flickering in her eyes.

"If Tim asks, will you tell him I've gone out to see if I can ask someone for intel on this pack?" Momentarily distracted by the dead wer's body on the stainless steel table, Abby keeps her eyes off Grace. Even though they are much alike in character, their flaws begin there. Both gracious, both working for the greater cause, they have individual traits. She swallows.

"Of course," Ducky promises, keeping eye contact with her. As she said before, it always seems like the telepath can read her mind, even if he has insisted he cannot due to her heritage.

She quickly leaves the room, sensing that Grace is better off without her presence, though it delights her a tiny bit to see the unwavering harbinger flinch just a little. She shows that she shouldn't, and usually she is sorry when people misjudge her character like that, but in Grace's case, she will make an exception.

_**(BREAK)**_

Something that comes with the obscure dental work and paleness is the ability to sense human emotions. Usually they are not hard to intercept, humans wearing their emotions on their sleeves, but sometimes, she meets a human with amazing abilities to disguise their true emotions. She has only met a few in the four decades she has been undead, and her manager, Joshua, is one of them. Therefore it is interesting to watch him be flirtatious one moment and agitated the other, but never quite knowing what he thinks. Rena is indeed intrigued by the golden-haired Michigander that works in her club. Although most of her costumers are human, she has a reputation for being the number one vampire club in the capitol. It is the range of vampiric society that comes here; the lowlives, the upper-class political figures, the predators and the heroic undead. Everyone comes at Classique, especially since she started serving human blood, donated by the few humans that was actually aware of Classique's darker clientele. She has only had to bare fangs at a few in her time, as the vampires usually agrees on keeping quiet. The hunting ground is half a block away from Classique.

Nevertheless, it is crowded tonight. The band that is playing is human, though she has heard a vampire has his eyes on turning the guitarist some time soon. It is standard policy to warn the police of it, but the guitarist seems quite taken with the mentioned vampire, and Rena doesn't get in the way of love, or a good meal for that matter, though it has been some time since she has had a human servant (they went of out fashion a decade ago or so).

Normally, this ability – sensing human emotion – doesn't work on creatures of the night, but then again, the little lamb isn't quite one of them. Though she doesn't stand out immediately, her frenzied passage through the crowd is impossible to miss. She is wearing ripped jeans and plateau boots, even though she is tall for her age, her black hair sprawled on her back. She looks torn between places, so Rena sighs and goes to save her.

"So here you come," her sultry voice says, straight into the dhampir's ear. She flinches instantly, having been distracted by the band and crowd for her to sense Rena. She acts like a fledgling, unaware of her own potential. As far as the vampire can tell, Abigail is afraid of her own abilities. Sad.

"Rena! Oh, hey, hi..," the dhampir says, clearly uncomfortable.

"Should we talk in private?" she asks, interested in what Abby has to say. She has only been here a few times and sadly, she has never been interested in the bar's entertainment or menu, but the society. Part of Rena is annoyed that she has never been trained properly, but then, she has taken it upon herself to teach the young one about the nightlife of a vampire. She hasn't taken her under her wings – as far as she can tell, Abby already has someone to protect her – but she knows that she is the closest the goth can come to understanding her vampiric side. She envies Abby for being able to walk during the day, but pities the dhampir as well for not taking joys in her parentage.

"N-no," Abby replies quickly. Again, she wears her heart on her sleeve. It doesn't take long for Rena to coordinate her to one of the packed sofas in the VIP lounge. Eyeing Joshua, she has him bring her something for the dhampir to get better.

"What's your problem? And be quick, I haven't got all night. A delicious someone is waiting to make me dinner right over there," Rena jokes, seeing the horrification in the light eyes of the dhampir. Abby realizes the joke too late, and Rena can almost scent her problem.

"Have you been around wers of late?"

Abby jerks her head in Rena's direction. "Yeah. And that's what I am here about.." Trying to regain some control, the dhampir talks faster. In vampire ears, it is understandable. "A wer I work with was attacked. He was taken by two others, one who died."

Despite her scrutiny, Rena cannot help but wrench her face in disgust by the mention of wers; it makes her think that perhaps Abigail has not inherited the natural blood feud between them. As she looks into Abby's eyes, she realizes she is wrong. She can see the controlled resentment within the orbs of blue. Someone has trained her, trained her to overcome her instincts. Suddenly Rena feels a bit shocked.

"Died? Wers, in DC? It surely has been a while," Rena whispers.

"They're from New York. Or, at least, they were in New York a few years back. They turned my friend, but he escaped." Fearing confirmation on her suspicions, Rena almost flinches when she hears Abby, "they are known as the Craven pack."

She visibly shutters and grabs a glass of wine from one of the trays a girl named Kimberly is carrying. Not sipping, she downs the whole to compensate for the shock. "I dreaded the day Larkin would come here. This is the first I hear of it, though. Stay away from them, Abby. They are killers."  
>"Hypocrite.." Abby dares to say, but is cut off by the seriousness in Rena's voice. Rena runs a hand through her bright red hair, so unlike the typical vampire. She follows the times.<p>

"Coming from a vampire, I realize it probably doesn't mean much, but you're a drinker of blood yourself." Abby sends her a deathly glare. "Or at least, could choose to be, but we only drink to keep ourselves alive. Those wers do it to feel the rush of the deaths, a policy that doesn't belong in the twenty-first century," Rena says sternly.

"Here." It is another waitress, Mirage, who has the drink Rena ordered for Abby in her hand. "Joshua sent this."

Abby looks confused between the dark liquor and Mirage and Rena. Rena sits casually, nods to Abby and gestures for her to drink the liquor. "It's not blood, is it?" Abby asks quietly when Mirage is out of earshot.

Rena cackles. "Are you attracted to it?" she asks mockingly, then because of her human mother, "Repulsed?"

Truth be told, Rena has no idea how the dhampir reacts to blood. She can remember her first feeding when she was turned, a rush of power that burnt through her veins like a thousand milliliters of LSD. Since then, it had faded slightly, but she still enjoys the sensations blood in her mouth feels like. Besides, it's necessary.

"I don't hunger after it, like I do with blood," Abigail informs her. Surprised, Rena doesn't say anything but manages to look slightly bored although her curiosity is peeked. Like Abby always seems to be interested in the life of vampires, she lusts after any information on dhampirs. And how to make one, perhaps, but Abby rarely discusses her parents, if ever.

"Then drink."

And she does, at first hesitantly, but then her hunger grows and by the time she has sipped, the glass is half-empty. Or half-full, depending on the psychology crap they let out these days. Rena smiles, satisfied.

"You want to find your friend, will you not? And I want Larkin and his pack out of DC. To do both, I need to tell you something you probably don't know, so _listen_." Her voice is suddenly sharp like the end of a spear. Or a stake for that matter. Gone is the sultry tone and the intoxicating accent. Her voice is chilly like a winter morning. "What do you feel?"

Abigail looks confused. An odd question. Rena rolls her eyes. "No, what do you _sense_? Remember."

Rena watches as her protege is attacked with floating memories. Like most drinks served to newcomers (at least the vampiric kind), the drink has been spiked with lamb's blood. Although not satisfying your hunger, it is quite the delicious appetizer. Nevertheless, that is not why she had Joshua mix a drink for Abby.

"It's dark, grassy and.. _Wait_, I'm sensing the animal?" Suddenly Abby looks sickly pale. Albeit not paler than Rena and her costumers.

"Which animal, Abby, be specific."

She rolls her tongue over her teeth, revealing pointy teeth, the middle ground between human canines and fangs. "Sheep. Except, sweeter. And I still can't believe you fed me blood!"

"Lamb," Rena corrects. "And you drank it willingly, but that is not the point. The point is, you can read blood. It's called _blood memory_, and I suspected you possessed it. Now I have confirmed it."

"How is this helping me find my friend?" Abby looks genuinely frustrated. Distressed.

"Do you have a vial of the wer's blood? Although it disgusts me just thinking about it, I can't see why you cannot use this ability to find the place the wers were instructed to bring your friend. And if dead wer blood doesn't work.. you could always use your friend's."

_**(BREAK)**_

In general, Tim doesn't consider himself violent. In fact, he has always been described as being very calm, a nerdy kid. He believes he has overcome that period, but now, he somehow doubts whether or not he can control his voice. He has raised it several times in Roan's presence and he has grown an intense dislike of the dead wer, even though he has been taught never to speak ill of the dead or to the dead. His grandmother told him that.

"Dude, that's gross," Chris Roan declares. He is more relaxed without Abby to insult and he has gotten over his death. He is currently sticking his incorporeal finger in the blood sample. "So, you're gonna donate my blood or what? It keeps fighting."

Tim rolls his eyes. "No, that would transfer the virus to the receiver. Dangerous at best. It's not everybody that survives the change and even few when they're sick," Tim informs him.

"Yeah, I remember," Roan says absentmindedly, taken a trip down memory lane. "Your boy almost didn't make it. Puked his guts out once the moon started calling.."

"Who, Tony?" Somehow, Tim finds it hard to believe that Tony ever did something as pitiful as that. Roan's answer – and confirmation – is an arrogant grin.

"Yeah. It wasn't until he turned wer that he became all civil – or that's perhaps the wrong world, figuring that his first trophy was quite coveted," the wer says ambiguously. He looks proud and conspiring, even in his death. Tim has already decided that he wouldn't have liked the wer anymore alive than in death.

"What does Larkin want with Tony, if you consider him weak?" It takes a lot for Tim to call his friend weak but it is for the sake of his life, so teasing him endlessly about it later will become possible.

"Oh, I never said that," Roan remarks, smirking like he knows something Tim doesn't. "Haven't you figured it out yet? One would think that with everything you know about Larkin, you would know.."

Tim has no idea. Yes, Roan had been reading over his shoulder when he read Larkin's file and even commented the bloody leftovers of the victims, making Tim's stomach turn. The thirty-three-year-old murderer had grown up on a farm and in the city separately, his parents divorced (records sealed). In 2000, he had dropped off the face of the earth until 2005, when he was charged with assault. He was acquitted. He is listed as a suspect in more than seven case files, all where someone has ended up being hurt. His list of acquaintances is as long that it took Word three minutes to open. His gang – Tim is uncomfortable calling it a pack – is known for its ferociousness. Tim dreads that Tony is somehow involved – and why do they want him? And what do they want with him?

"Even wers take in family," Roan lets on. "Larkin considers Tony a brother, even before he saw him that night in the bodega. Hell, he speaks about him like they've known each other for long. Whether it's for real or just pretend, I don't know."

Tim is typing away the moment Roan gives up that information. Sealed records be damned.

_**(BREAK)**_

"I haven't missed you one bit, Lark," Tony spits; blood spatter the floor and he can smell it. He can smell Larkin's bad breath, too, and turns his head away in disgust. Has the guy never heard of breath mint? But then Tony remembers; he should have been that guy.

During the last hour, Tony has learnt a lot. That these shackles won't come off until Larkin tells the big guy by the steel-enforced door to. That the guy by the door is a wer named Ben. That Larkin hasn't grown any nicer in the time they've been apart. And that Larkin really, really likes to talk. Oh, let's not forget the fact that there is only one way out – through the steel-enforced door, once you've gotten by the two wers. Tony doesn't like the odds.

"So, Rake tells me you were chatting a lady to bed when we stopped by." Tony clenches his jaw at the idea of Ziva being referred to as meat. Larkin didn't have to be a wer to say these words. "Sorry about that, Tone, but we were really getting impatient and I'll make it up to you, I promise. Now, tell me." A wild look crosses Larkin's face, "was she good in the sack?"

Tony manages to crack his head against Larkin's skull, earning some self-esteem and sending Larkin stumbling back. Had he been normal, he would have shouted out an insult. Instead, he starts to cackle. "Great to see some action, Antoine, but pack rule number one: Alpha gets first, and then you share..."

Tony scoffs. He has definitely not missed Larkin. Sure, they were pals back in the day, before Larkin decided he needed a pack member to his collection. Although the memory of Larkin biting him is hazy at best, he hasn't forgiven Larkin and probably never will.

He tries to ignore Larkin's obnoxiousness, attempts to figure out how he's gonna get out of this one. By bringing his pack, Larkin has left his own territory in New York (yeah, he has contacts) vulnerable, meaning one of two things; either he is eager to go back, or he's planning to stay and wreak havoc in DC. Tony can already see the dreadful headlines. Wherever Larkin goes, death, destruction and mayhem follow. With eleven (if he's correct) loyal pack members – all wer – who have each sworn loyalty till the end, the odds are not in favor of a single, wounded wer. Though he is healing, it is not fast enough. And Larkin has noticed.

"Brother," he addresses proudly. "You need to feed soon. Your wounds need attention. Olivia!" Larkin shouts impatiently. Tony's brows shoot up when a female silhouette enters the room, opening the heavy door easily. She walks stiffly, like she needs medical attention herself, but she is a vision. Her blonde hair hangs straight, and she moves ghostly but confident as she strides to her summoner. Larkin barely notices her, but she seems to understand the reason to her summoning.

"Hi," Tony says hoarsely. Larkin has left and Ben stands inanimate by the door. "Name's Tony.."

"Olive," she replies while she fumbles with the sponge. She has a bowl beside her and is tending to his wounds. He tries not to flinch and she tries to avoid eye contact. Their breaths mix and Tony can tell she is a wer. Even if he couldn't, it is confirmed when she harshly tightens the band-aid quite carelessly. She has soft hands, he notes. The blonde strands get in the way of her work but she merely tucks it behind an ear, turning red. Tony finds her odd; she is soft one moment, harsh the next. Though not a magical healer, she is what must do.

"What happened?" he dares to ask.

"I could ask you the same," she snaps back, then sighs and relaxes. "A bullet to the hip. Makes transformations hard."

"Ouch. Though I haven't gotten to transformations myself," he shares casually, tried to gain her trust; he knows it's useless, because being a wer – or just supernatural in general – means being distrustful. Why should Olive be any different? She is attractive, despite the bullet, and looks to be in her late twenties yet she has the look of maturity in her green eyes. She looks defiant and proud, and Tony can't understand why she puts up with Larkin. She seems to be capable of taking care of herself, even if she has an injury. She reminds him of Ziva.

Thinking of his partner makes reality get a grip on him. Olive is done with her tending, but he is still here. As far as he can tell, he's still in DC. The harbor is nearby, he can smell that. He has taken a light blow to the head, so his senses are slightly off, but he is hardly ever wrong when it comes to sense of smell. Well, except that one time with Abby. He dreads the memory, and it's odd to be in the hands of an Alpha wer and fear your own colleague who is probably doing her best to track them down, if they even know he's here. And he doesn't know if Ziva is all right – the wer _did _bite her. All Tony remembers is the sudden fury that took over, and then the feeling of having four paws and massive teeth. Olive's kind hands are a nice distraction.

Larkin returns, having brought two thugs with him. Ben is still at the door, watching them closely yet discreet. The Alpha glances at Tony before bowing down and release the chains, breaking Tony of his captivity.

"Now, Tony, you'll have to fight for your freedom. And my pack has been looking forward to see if you had the guts. I still believe your blood thirst is unbroken, but let us see, shall we?" Tony rises tottering, and only sees the blood bag a moment before it lands in his chest. Type O-neg. Eyeing the visibly muscular pack members, then realizes that there's only one way out. To follow Larkin's demands and fight. But it also means doing something he has never done before; changing at will.

Larkin's smirk is greater motivation than he needs. He bites the corner of the bag off, feeling the gurgling blood consume his throat. Though it is coppery in his human form, he refuses to drink from the form of a wolf. It is savage no matter what, and it is his true nature. A nature he has to become fully in order to survive. Even if Larkin hasn't said it, he has made it clear what will happen if he doesn't.

And DiNozzos don't go down without a fight.

_**(BREAK)**_

It is dawn by the pair has checked out all the empty warehouses nearby hunting ground – parks, woods, et cetera. Jethro has to admit, he is disappointed they haven't made any progress and haven't come any closer to finding the Craven pack. His newest agent, however, is doing an excellent job as a Huntress. Unlike DiNozzo – and even McGee – she has nothing against silence. The young healer has an edge to her that not even his dhampir employee possesses. She looks fiery even as the first rays of sun reach the horizon and she yawns.

"Any ideas, Gibbs?" It doesn't sound helpless, nor tired nor mocking, just a simple question. She is great at that; acting simple but being an enigma herself. So far the last couple of days, she has only brought trouble and mystery. Jethro doesn't blame her for Tony being kidnapped, though he knows she thinks he does. Ducky isn't the only one able to know what people think.

"Yeah, I have," he reveals. He hasn't gotten any texts from Kelly, which means she has fallen asleep at Jen's. She better have. He doesn't worry about her missing school on a friday. He'll write a note (or Kelly will forge his handwriting or remind him), because right now, all that matters is his team's safety, his daughter included. She is safe with Jen, and then Jen has someone, too.

"Then what is it?"

"Calling Abby and McGee," he replies simply.

_**(BREAK)**_

"Tim, I know it sounds weird and I wouldn't even think about doing it, but it might save Tony! Trust, me there's nothing that disgusts me more than that wer blood and I can even look at it without being nauseous, but. it. Might. Save. Tony," Abby snarls in hysteria. She understands his worry, and she tells the truth when she says the blood is sick, but what Rena told her is true. When she drank that lamb blood _(poor animal)_ at Classique, she entered its mind, its darkest secrets and memories. It means that if she drinks Chris Roan's blood from the vial, she will have more information on him and the pack that the mass spectrometer. It is worth risking.

"Abby, I don't think it's a good idea," Tim argues worriedly. It is clear in his body language that he does not approve of Rena's advice.

"Well, it's good then, that you don't get to decide!" Abby exclaims heatedly.

"I only worry, Abby –!"

Ducky clears his voice behind them. They simultaneously jump up, surprised. Tim eyes Abby with a questionable gaze.

"My, my, what is the cause to this heated discussion, Timothy? Abigail?" His kind voice makes them feel ashamed. They are arguing while Tony is out there, expecting him to find them. A clear-headed Tim begins:

"Abby's friend convinced her that she has.. what was it called?"

"Blood memory," Abby supplies.

"Right," Tim says. "and she, by drinking the blood –."

" – or simply tasting it –."

" – she can access the memories of the source. In this case, Christopher Roan," Tim states. "I've been seeing him for the last hours, and as far as I can tell, Tony is gonna be initiated soon. Larkin wants him to."

"And it's gonna take days for him to convince Roan to talk. We can't afford that kind of time!" Abby justifies.

"I can do it in a few hours," Tim corrects, obviously hurt that Abby doesn't believe in his ability as an investigator and a medium.

Ducky sighs and looks at the both of them. "Well, I must agree that time is of the essence in this case, but Tim is also right, Abby," the medical examiner notes with the wise eyes he possesses. The goth sinks her shoulders. "ingesting the blood of a wer might have irreversible consequences. Especially considering your parentage. Think of the problems you've had to face with having a wer like Tony working nearby. On a cellular level, the result..," he trails off, catching one of Timothy's distressed thoughts.

"But we are past that, Ducky! If I can get used to Tony, a wer, I can –!"

They are interrupted by the familiar lyrics of the ring tone attached to Jethro Gibbs on Abby's cell. All have panic on their faces, but it is Ducky who calmly urges her to answer it. In momentary trepidation, she throws the cell phone at Tim, who gives her a childish expression.

"McGee."

"_What've you got?_" Not 'why do you have Abby's phone' in a seemingly intimidating manner, but no-nonsense. McGee puts him on speaker.

"Well, Jethro, I found traces of _fish erysipeloid_, or simply, fish poisoning. I think the pack might have been nearby the sea, or, and I dread to mention it, hunted where fishermen are closeby," Ducky shares.

"He says he does like seafood," Tim says, rather disgusted. "But so far, I have only found out that Larkin's file is sealed, at least, the part mentioning his parents. I am working on cracking it, but you should know that Larkin is planning to initiate Tony into the pack. Whatever that means," he adds uncertainly.

"_Good. Keep me posted, McGee. Call the girls if you need to_."

"I will. And be safe, boss –."

He is cut off by the beep of his boss having hung up on them, Abby stands frozen, an empty blood vial in her hand, memories overwhelming her as she faints.


	5. Cries of the Wolves: Blood Memory

**Author's Note:** I couldn't help myself with all the Abby frenzy. No, I like Rena, and Olive just seemed kinda random, but it'll all make sense in a few chapters... or in the next part of Albeit Abnormal. I think so. Whatever. I am playing with the idea of bringing Trent Kort in, but I have no idea where his place is in all of this.

_**You want more Jen/Kelly? Jibbs? Tiva, McAbby? Review whose POVs you wanna see! **_

Oh, and the facts about vampires and wer(ewolves) is based on several shows and films, all of which I think are cool but not too otherworldly (ahem). I'm making it up as I go.

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you may recognize as NCIS.**

**Chapter V: Blood Memory**

_Behind them, Abby stands frozen, an empty vial in her hands, memories overwhelming her as she faints. _

"She has no pulse!"

"Of course not, Jimmy, she is a dhampir, remember? Her heart doesn't beat," Tim angrily remarks matter-of-factly, only out of concern for Abby. She is on the floor, her fingers tight around the empty vial, blood from a wer dripping from her lips. Panicked, Tim is kneeled down, checking up on Abby although he knows that they can only know for sure she's all right when she awakes. Ducky is doing what he can, but his medical assistance doesn't help with an undead heart. Jimmy has arrived sometime between Abby fainting and now, but Tim cannot remember. Looking up, Tim realizes Grace is behind the medical examiner's assistant. Right now, they have to worry about Abby.

"What can I do?" Grace asks, bent over Abby's body. Body. It seems so... dead.

"Well, for one, you can step back," Abby says faintly from the floor. She groans in pain and sits up, getting to her senses.

"Are you all right, my dear?" Ducky asks politely. He is a doctor first and foremost. Nobody is asking Abby why she drank it; right now, it is her medical condition they're focusing on. Even the ME agrees it was reckless. "Abigail, you could have hurt yourself slipping!"

Abby pouts, knowing it was irresponsible. The rare anger of Ducky bursts but they all know it's out of concern, not genuine rage. "But –."

"Abby, are you all right?" the twins ask in union. It doesn't seem odd, though Abby remains hesitant, sending them a "whuut" gaze in their direction. It still amazes her that they do not look alike, them being the sacred twins of NCIS. Sometimes Abby envies them, secretly, of course. Grace, with her pale, red hair with ringlets seem extraordinary while Jimmy Palmer looks like something out of the ordinary book. He wears glasses (no pun intended – although they all know that his sight and visions aren't nearly as extensive as Grace's) and is common. Average height, kinda spindly, nick-named 'autopsy gremlin' by Tony and with kind eyes (a completely objective observation made by Abby).

"But, Ducky, I saw it." Abby sounds thrilled though there is some regret in her voice. She licks her lips and Tim pretends not to notice the hunger in her gaze. "I saw where Roan intended to bring Tony. It's by the harbor, in a warehouse," she supplies. She reaches for a sheet of paper but loses her balance half-way.

"Are you okay?" Tim asks worried while Jimmy hands her a post-it pad and a pen that's nearby the desk. They've placed Abby on a chair. Ducky, who has left Abby for a moment, returns with a cup of water.

"Here, Abigail."

After mouthing a 'thanks', Abby begins to talk. "It's not lightheadedness. It's.. the rush," she reveals embarrassed, blushing. She feels crowded, Jimmy, Tim, Ducky and Grace. All their scents.

"Give her some room, dear, she's ingested wer blood, don't you think she should relax?" Ducky bursts out. They all step back, giving Abby room to recall what she has seen in the blood. She writes something down, hands the pad to Tim and waits as he finds the address on the computer.

"I can't be certain, though, they could have relocated. Besides, the blood is old, the source dead. I can't track it," Abby admits apologetic.

"Let's see about that," Tim says soon after, dialing Gibbs' number as he reads the address aloud.

_**(BREAK)**_

"Ziver! Got an address!" Jethro calls out. They are at the drug store, buying supplies for their Hunt. It has been awhile since he has hunted and he has made it a rule not to because of many reasons. Kelly is one of them; she needs him, and dammit if he is gonna let her celebrate her transition to an adult in Joann's care. He has nothing against his mother-in-law, but she has a narrow-minded view of the world. The second reason why he has stopped hunting is Tony. He is a part of his team and for there to be trust, Jethro had needed to put hunting behind him. Tracking down and killing the fellows of your friend seemed morally wrong. Plus, he has his job at NCIS.

Now, one member of that team is missing and they are willing to go to hell and back for him, Ziva David only seeming to get more determined by the hour. She returns from the store soon after, throwing the stuff on the back seat. They have taken turns on who's driving, and so far, haven't stopped for rest or food before now. And it finally seems to pay off. When Ziva hears that McGee and Abby have found an address, she is surprised but chooses not to ask. It doesn't seem appropriate or fitting. Her focus is admirable, Jethro thinks. She is obviously affected by the attack, but her intelligence and training make her able to compartmentalize. She is a natural at it.

There are several texts from his daughter. Some are filled with worry but the latest ones with annoyance rather than actual anxiety. Kels is great at keeping her fears hidden, but she can only keep them from her father for so long. Prior to becoming a Hunter, Jethro was in the marine corps, learning discipline, marksman skills and to work united. He has his own set of rules, number eighteen being _Always work as a team. _Although Jethro doubts that his decision to split the team in groups is the right thing to do, he doesn't want his teenaged daughter to be alone where Larkin and his pack easily can access. Jen is a skilled agent, and a straight shooter with a steady hand and gun experience. If attacked (though wers appearing on Jen's doorstep are distinctively unlikely), she will protect his daughter.

Jethro smirks mentally at the memory of Jen Sheppard, who marched into his life willing to destroy him. When they first met, she was unaware of her powers, just a striding police detective with an attitude. Back then, he couldn't have pictured her as someone he'd wanna work with, but she always seemed to be the liaison between him and the police force whenever he hunted in her city. She had even been brought in when he'd hunted in Maine. They'd learnt – slowly and painfully – to work together as equals and split on neutral terms (he'd even seen her smile once or twice), him to hunt on and her to continue her way up the ladder of the bureaucratic world of field work. She was respected and did a good job, both with the investigative part and the families. Kind and smart and intuitive but following the rules (which was the one thing that separated them).

Now Jen has brought in the Israeli, claiming she is here because of her skills as a healer. Contradicting everything they've seen so far in Ziva, Jethro truly believes that she is the best suited on his team to find Tony. Although she says she hasn't hunted wers before, her only prior experience with a friend's boyfriend (which sounded like it ended badly, based on bad judgment), she is excellent. He doesn't doubt that the next time they are on surveillance, he'll choose her over Tony and even McGee (who both talk, one out of obnoxiousness and one out of nervousness), because he is certain that they _will _get Tony back.

"What now?" the brunette asks, her eyes on the road like she is afraid she'll break if she faces him.

"We'll get Tony," Jethro states simply, although he knows that getting his senior agent back will be anything but simple. Larkin has taken Tony for a reason.

"I meant about the Initiation, Gibbs," Ziva clarifies. Her solemn expression is cracking, either due to fatigue or emotional tiredness. He sighs, knowing he cannot pull it off any longer. She has to know, needs to know. Even if his knowledge is, by far, not extensive enough to explain it properly, Ziva needs to know what she is to expect if they arrive too late.

"A wer Initiation is a powerful ritualistic try-out where a wer, selected by the Alpha, is run through a series of tests, the many being fights without inhibitions between the wers. If the chosen wer doesn't uphold the standards of the Alpha, even if to survive, is killed. It's a concept of brutality," Gibbs says slowly.

"Kill or be killed," Ziva supplies, horrified. Then she knits her brows, confused. "But Larkin cannot just take Tony, can he? Doesn't he have to volunteer?"

"Larkin isn't big on rules," the grey-haired hunter growls, trying to ignore the parallels he's drawing between himself and the sadistic Alpha. "He could have threatened Tony to come. Transformations require power. And if, and I say _if_, Tony has been able to keep himself in full control, he has to be exhausted. He would have been an easy mark, especially when he isn't used to changing."

"Tony had no trouble changing at the apartment," Ziva argues, but is cut off.

"DiNozzo changes three times every month, three nights in a row. He is used to bones cracking and muscles rearranging, but it is something we'll never understand, Ziva, so do not think that it is easy for him. Even the most trained wer feels the pain of every cell in his body alter. It is doing the transition between human form and wer, in this case, wolf form that the wer is at its most vulnerable to attacks. Though weak, the human form has alluring advantages," the hunter states quite respectfully but also with an old hatred against the shape-shifters. While he once understood them and tried to mend the unfortunate feud, his beloved wife, and the mother of his child, was attacked and killed. He has not forgot, although he tries to be forgiving around Tony. The young wer's spontaneous transformation has perhaps told him that he has not succeeded in keeping his resentment to himself.

"So, what you are saying is that Tony is weak?" the Israeli asks in disbelief, somehow ending up defending her hated partner.

"Physically, in his human form, no. In his wer form, it is different. We may need to use force to bring him home and I want that to be clear, Ziva. With Tony unable to control his wer during the moon cycles, he may have unleashed something powerful within him when he changed. Which he did to protect you, I believe."

Ziva suddenly looks guilty. It does not take Jethro long to find out why, but he dwells at it. This afternoon, they were at each others' throats, but something happened in that apartment that drives Ziva's motivation. Something that caused Tony to do a dreadful thing he has never been in control of.

"Tony dislikes me, Gibbs, but he does not wish to see me dead. I am his partner. I do not understand his instinctual dislike of me, but I must admit I have miscalculated him. I may have been the cause to why we are so adrift. I mocked him earlier today, irrationally. I am sorry," the Israeli states.

"Don't say you're sorry, Ziva. It's a sign of weakness," he informs her sternly. He can't say he blames her. As noble as Tony may act sometimes, he can be out of line and even obnoxious. He isn't as tactless as he pretends to, and he genuinely cares, though he can be a true jerk. Jethro understands why Ziva would snake back with a tense reply, the intensity burning in the air. He realizes that Ziva has felt the senior agent's instincts.

She nods understandably. "You are right. Tony did change, if to protect me or not, he meant to, but he has no experience. If Larkin is putting him through the Initiation, it may not be our Tony we wind up finding."

_**(BREAK)**_

All air leaves his lungs suddenly when a kick lands in his belly. He gasps after air, the room adrift and floaty. Even though his memory is slippery, as far as he can tell, the leg kicking belongs – or, rather, belonged – to a wer named Spencer who has been ordered not to transform. It is Tony's sixth fight and he cannot count the hours. It seems like days ago the wer named Olivia treated his wounds. Now, his body is sore and it hurts to breathe. He suspects he has bruised a rib, but he keeps fighting, even though everything hurts and his vision blurs.

He is currently in his wolf from, by own will, though the moon shines above. He is certain that it's either a trick done out of black curtains or he has control over himself. He has forced himself to preserve his wer form because he is used to pain in this shape, and he fears that he might faint if he changes. His pride is there, but shadowed by the imprisonment of Larkin's pack. He doesn't know whether or not he has hurt or killed the other five wers, but at least two were in their wolf forms.

He swallows sorely and blinks. Recovering quickly, he leaps froward, aiming for the throat of Spencer. Ben, or, rather, Benedict, is still be the door, looking a bit surprised by his fight. In his wer form, he is able to see details beyond the human eye. It gives him the element of surprise as long as Spencer doesn't change.

Larkin returns as Tony ferociously has Spencer by the neck, his strong jaw gnawing unto the neck of a fretting Spencer. Tony cannot help but smirk as the other wer falls unconscious before he can transform. Gasping for air, he collapses next to the feet of Larkin. The scar-faced Alpha looks satisfied at him, causing Tony to wince poignantly while he tries to remain stoic. Even the rage of Gibbs seems like a haven compared to the savaging cruelty Larkin forces him to do. He tells himself that these wers have chosen to follow Larkin and are killers, but he keeps seeing Olivia before his eyes and the innocent orbs of the female wer.

"You know, brother, Nana always said you were the strong one," Larkin begins, then claps his hands together and turns Spencer's body over with his boot. He doesn't look surprised, but impressed. "I'm beginning to see what she meant. You've lusted so long, after all.."

Tony cannot hold the wer form anymore. He changes, lying exhausted and gasping on the floor. Benedict drags Spencer away, seemingly off to Olivia for healing. Tony doubts that the wer has ever possessed magical healing abilities but she is surely the kindest in the pack, which makes him wonder why she has even joined. Maybe she is like him, having been turned and then forced to kill, then realized that no-one else would take her in after the killing.

At least Tony can be proud that he knows for sure that Rake, the wer that attacked him and Ziva, is dead at his jaw. Larkin speaks again although Tony tries to block him out. "What do you want from me?"

"Patience, my brother. I want you to succeed. I saw the half-tamed beast you kept. It was a disgrace to our line," the Alpha says, disgust not even concealed on his face. He has destroyed all voluntary humanity in him, brought the wer out to the outer bone. Tony tries to put his inner wer back into the box he kept it in.

"But then, for _her_, you released it." Larkin grins, like he has solved the puzzle. "If you continue this way, you will be worthy –"

"I refuse."

Larkin looks confused and amused, but then anger crosses his face. "Do you refuse the Initiation?"  
>"Yes," Tony replies, pure hatred burning in his sea-green eyes. He may have the closest relation to Larkin but they are nothing alike. The shed of humanity Larkin has left doesn't compare to the many occasions Tony has fought for the safety of humans, doing his work, working to protect humans from supernaturals, himself included. Powers gone rogue, hunger unleashed. He has sworn that even if somebody on the team goes loose, he will do what is necessary.<p>

Larkin kicks him hard, trying to ignite the fire within Tony, but the agent refuses to cooperate. He clenches his jaw, floating away from the cold room of the warehouse, the scent of the harbor and the pain of constant agony in his side. Finally, he feels spit in his face and Larkin leaving, but he is down memory lane before they can do anything about it.

_Flashback._

He remembers when he first joined the team. Unofficially. Jethro had believed in him and brought him to a hostage situation. Tony hadn't understood it then. How could he help someone at in hostage situation and what kind of job could he do as a wer? Soon he realized.

He'd had to admit, she was beautiful, but he had already sensed that she was taken. When he saw them interact, he understood clearly. She had the most fiery green eyes he'd ever seen, rivaling her red strands of hair. At first, he had suspected she'd been the mother of Gibbs' daughter. Of course, Gibbs hadn't allowed him to stay with his fourteen-year-old daughter while he recuperated, but he'd visited once or twice when they'd trained in the hunter's basement. Kelly shared the same red-haired beauty, but he soon discovered that what was between the negotiator and Gibbs weren't romance but chemistry. Jenny Sheppard was unmarried, but a fearsome lady. A set jaw met them when they entered the temporary base.

"What do you bring with you, Jethro? Besides trouble," the redhead asked, gazing over Tony who was dressed in civilian clothes and looked haunted.

"Labour," the man simply replied. The redhead looked at him, expecting an elaboration but getting none.

"Can't we discuss this later?" She lowered her voice. "This subject has six hostages and is demanding a cure for his disease." She rolled her eyes, declaring the subject's unreasonable demands.

"Vampire?" Gibbs asked, more curious than concerned. The moon hovered above them and Tony shivered. He had learnt to fear the moon and the horror it brought. Though now aware of what he did during his transformations, he was still unable to stop the change.

"Yes," Jenny revealed absentmindedly. "Now get out of my way. I know your expertise is extensive, but I cannot do this. He has already been in there for an hour and he seems to be newly turned.

"Send Tony in," Gibbs suggested. Both the redhead and Tony looked at him, flabbergasted, Tony accepting the challenge.

"He's a civilian, I can't risk it. It's against his rules, no matter how you've taught him," Jenny growled.

"Sheppard, he's calling!" one of the techs called out and Jenny was forced to leave them.

Gibbs took him outside and explained to him how the moon would soon reach its zenith and leave Tony able to change. He explained how Tony could distract the vampire because of the blood feud between the races. And Tony did.

When the vampire, wrestling with a bear-sized wer, crashed through the window ten minutes later, everybody jumped out, except for Gibbs who stood idly by and watched his trainee fight with his big jaws. Tony's brown coat of fur flew through the air like a big ball of hair with huge teeth. Tony nearly couldn't hold his humanity in control, the inner beast demanding blood rage from the moment he'd stepped into the proximity of the vampire, who hadn't had the chance to respond before a huge wolf had leapt at him.

The shot that was fired happened after the blood from the neck wound of the vampire had caused him to gasp (although they didn't breathe). Tony gave out a yelp of pain as he felt the bullet tear through the muscle. The sudden pain caused him to appear like a dog putted down and it was only when his huge, green eyes stared at Gibbs that he realized what had happened.

"Jethro, what's this – ?"

"You just shot my friend, Jen." Gibbs' tone was angry but the edge of worry threatened. Tony felt somebody rummage through his fur as he slipped into a dizzy state, apparently changing back.

"What the hell, Jethro? This was irresponsible! Unacceptable!" The words were both furious and poisonous.

"So he's hired?" His mentor's voice was calm, even though his hand was steadily keeping the blood flow that bled through the skin on Tony's knee. He groaned but they didn't seem to notice, their chemistry in the air.

"You've gotta admit it was a good plan, Jen," Jethro argued flirtatiously.

A sigh. "All right. I can't get out of this one without, can I? He's hired if he survives. I'm surprised you brought a wer, that's all..."

_Flashback end._

"Brother, wake up! I have a present..," Larkin promises seductively and excited. Tony's foggy memory of how he met Jen Sheppard disappears. Hallucinative and unresponsive. Gibbs would be proud, he thinks sarcastically. Then he freezes as he recognizes a scent in the room. An unoccupied scent he recognizes without doubt.

"Thought this might help my next Alpha get in the right mood, if you understand," Larkin adds, a subtle threat in his voice that is undoubtedly a threat.

Horror fills Tony and every inch of hope is erased. "I won't fight that," he spits, blood somehow ending up on the floor. His lip is split. But he doesn't care about that.

_**(BREAK)**_

"It's here," Gibbs confirms. They slip out of the car, their guns loaded with silver bullets. It's amazing how, despite their differences, both the wer and vampiric race share a common weakness for the metal. Lucky for the NCIS agents, since it prepares them for both. Ziva looks up at the roof, her trained eyes noting the bright moon that hovers above them. She bites her lip but then doesn't. It will only reveal their position and the element of surprise is their only advantage right now.

The apartment complex is not what either had imagined a prestigious, arrogant pack of wers. It smells like a set-up but they have not time for precautions. It has been nearly a day since Tony was abducted and they've done everything in their power to track him back – and the Craven pack. The mere thought of seeing her partner again makes Ziva hopeful and filled with preparedness. She is awfully trigger happy and is known for her aim. The wers will not cross her path and get away again. Plus, she has an experienced Hunter at her side.

"Clear!" Gibbs yells, just as Ziva dreadfully senses that something isn't as it should be. They've entered the alleged home of the wer pack, but it is silent as the grave. Biting her lip, she has realized that her wish that this place held Tony is hopeless. She turns her head in the direction of the voice just to dodge the huge jaws of a full-sized wer. Ziva recovers quickly, and shouts: "Not clear!" before throwing a kick in the wolf's stomach. It yelps in pain but recuperates and charges at her once again, only this time, she is ready.

Furiously, she launches her knife – _Gibbs' rule number 9 _– at it, straying its brown fur. It jumps back in surprise and then leaps forward, its target her bare neck. She ducks for cover. and the wer ends up in a rather expensive couch. Ziva can feel the fury overtake her, and her healing hands become deadlier than ever with a weapon. Her SIG Sauer nearly leads the way, and before she can hesitate, the silver-coated bullet has left the barrel, tearing into the flesh and tissue of the wer. It growls painfully and turns its yellow eyes directly at her, the anger evident.

Exhaling, her knife in one hand, gun in the other, she blinks, gasping after air. Sparring with Tony in his human form has never been this difficult; she has definitely underestimated the wer race and its power. Right now, as she breathily kneels down, armed, to check if it's still alive, there is nothing she wishes more for than to see Tony before her eyes.

A sharp pain hits her head and all she sees is total darkness. When Ziva awakes, her wish has come true.


	6. Cries of the Wolves: Intake of Breath

**Author's note: **I'm terribly sorry that I was so long writing the last chapter. It won't happen again; I think. Anyway, I've now reached a point where the plot is thickening. I want to say thanks for everyone who has reviewed! You're the reason I keep this going :D Anyway, as far as I've planned, there will be eight chapters in "Cries of the Wolves". I think you'll like this chapter...

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything that is recognized as NCIS.**

**Chapter VI: Intake of Breath**

Gibbs tells himself he should have seen this coming. Someone taking Ziva, probably to break Tony. Or to lure Tony into their lair. Either way, the fact that his healer is not in the apartment anymore is unnerving. It means he has to go back to his Hunter ways. He had sensed something off about the apartment complex but hadn't warned Ziva about the feeling, having sensed that she already knew and was aware.

From the looks of it, the wer had surprised her, but she'd fought back. Apparently, she had fought back aggressively, leaving a body in the awake of the attack. A wer. Gibbs is surprised by the way Larkin's minions pair up. Wers have always been categorized as loners or pack members – not partners. Sure, they choose mates from time to time, but from the crime scene it is obvious that both wers were male. Male wers are larger and leave deeper paw marks. Seeing as the scene is completely wreaked, Jethro hopes his newest team member remembered to charge her weapon without hesitation. Silver bullets are lodged into the wer and due to this, he cannot help but smile. Ziva reminds him of Jen back when she wasn't as... politically correct.

He checks for a pulse on the wer but knows he won't find any. Without a living wer, they cannot track the Craven properly; it breaks him to know what Abby did to get the location of this wer dump that wasn't even on his list on places Larkin might go. He has never doubted the true intentions of Abby; she is, sadly, driven by instincts rather than intentions. These intentions brought her intuitive nature out, leading to an, albeit abnormal, alternative way to finding the resting place of the pack. She had succeeded but they'd gotten there too late _(he had)_ and Larkin has relocated.

Flipping his cell open, he quickly dials Abby's number while he continues to examine the scene. His skills may be rusty but it doesn't mean that he doesn't see the ways of a determined wer. The identifying marks of the Craven pack. Unleashed beasts. Unlike Tony, who thrice a month chains himself to a wall while he howls at the moon, so to speak. Jethro isn't sure why Larkin wants Tony; for a personal vendetta against the Hunter? Or are these the plans Larkin had for Tony when Jethro interrupted three years ago?

"_Gibbs, was he there?_" The worry and anxiety in Abby's voice shows Jethro that she truly cares about the wer on the team. They've gotten over the instinctual blood feud between them, something rare in Abby's case.

"No, Abbs, but we have bigger problems," he relays. "They took Ziva." He can even hear the distress in his own voice.

"_How?_" McGee asks dumbfounded. He then rephrases: "_I mean, boss, what happened?_"

"I cleared the upper floor, she didn't," Gibbs says simply. "They were waiting. One's dead."

"_Just like at Tony's_," Abby points out, seeing the pattern. "_But why would they need Ziva? Aside from being Tony's partner, she's nothing special._"

"Exactly," Gibbs states, sampling some of the blood he's sure come from the dead wer. Maybe he has been where Tony was taken, and Abby can use her mojo on it. "She's Tony's partner, and he was willing to fight beside her when they first attacked. According to the Craven, humans are not equals to wer."

"_But, Ziva's not exactly human,_" Abby points out quietly, afraid that he might already have seen that. Her voice is testing the waters, Gibbs can hear that.

"They don't know that. Healers are indeed very human in scent and appearance," Gibbs argues knowingly.

"_But Tony can smell the difference, even if I can't._"

"_Abby's right, boss. He's been hostile towards her for weeks_," Tim agrees. "_Wait, does this have anything to do with why Larkin wants Tony?_"

"Maybe, McGee, but I can't track the wer that took her. Get Sheppard there – we need feed of this complex for around fifteen minutes ago."

"_Will do, boss. You coming in?_" the medium asks hopefully.

"No, McGee, but Abby?"  
>The chipper, gothic dhampir is immediately at service. "<em>Yeah<em>?"

"I need you to taste Tony's blood."

_**(BREAK)**_

Once she gets to her senses, everything is a blur. Her memory, her vision, everything's numb, like if anesthetized. She can feel the blow she has taken to the head, but slowly feels as it heals albeit slower than usually. It is taken energy from her to heal, especially when she if tied up hands on her back, unable to put then on her wounds. She recovers by blinking numbly, looking through blurred glass with the mess of her brown hair in the way. This time, she has no-one to brush it away – which she barely makes it to think before a slim hand reaches out to tuck it away. She flinches at the touch, wincing at the unfamiliar environment. As her vision increases and she is able to focus, it becomes clear where she is.

"Ziva!" Tony whispers hastily. He is sitting, half passed out across her. His sea-green eyes are worried and filled with sincere concern for her. He looks like shit, to put it plainly. He is sweaty and barely clad in clothes. She has never spent any time wondering what happens to a wer's clothes when it transforms. The clothes – a loose t-shirt and shorts – are very un-Tony and looks provided. Larger gashes stand out like red against white although his tanned body has never looked in better shape (she cannot help but notice).

"Tony?" she says through the blurriness. Relief replaces confusion on her face. She reaches out to touch him for confirmation, but realizes she is tied up. Whether it's duct tape or chains, they are hurting her wrists as she protests.

"Thank God," her wer partner sighs, then his face darkens. He moves toward her and she is surprised to discover that he is, in fact, not chained to the shackles behind him. His wrists, however, seem to indicate otherwise. "What happened?"

"Untie me," Ziva tries, ignoring the question. His facial expression changes into one of defeat.

"I can't," he admits sadly, looking away in shame. "That door is enforced with steel. And on the other side is a grim wer named Ben," he tells, grinning as if she has missed the joke. His laugh, however, soon fades and dies.

"Tony..." Ziva gives him the look-over. "What have they done to you?"

He bites his lip. "They want me to fight. It's some sick game Larkin wants me to win. To pass." True hatred flashes across the orbs of her partner and it is the only time she has truly felt scared of Tony's wolf. "I'm grateful you're alive, Ziv. Back in the apartment.."

"It is all right, Tony," she whispers softly, ignoring the nickname for now. The tenderness in his voice scares her.

"No," he replies guiltily, then stretches his hand to caress her cheek. She realizes dry tears are running down her face, but quickly suppresses them. Luckily her partner hasn't seemed to notice.

"You need medical attention, Tony," Ziva states, changing the subject. She is about to add, _I can heal you_, but they are interrupted by a menacing laughter. Suddenly she feels naïve. The door is opened, and the wer bodyguard steps aside to reveal the body of a primal-dressed man in his early thirties. The same age as Tony. The large scar that slashes across his face is the first thing that springs to mind, but she also notes that he has the same color of eyes as Tony. The sea-green familiarity is horrifying in the obviously ferocious face. His eyes hold such darkness that is makes her bones retract. Is this the man they have been letting Tony be held by for two days?

Tony, unlike her, doesn't bow in terror, but defiantly chooses to hold his chin high, something Ziva has yet to see him do to Gibbs. No, the true hatred burning brightly in Tony's eyes don't quite match the one in the man's, but it is enough for Ziva to know that this man is, indeed, Larkin.

"Yeah, Tony here does need a tender touch," the Alpha states coldly, smiling viciously, awaiting her reaction to his obvious amusement of Tony's pain. He bows down to stroke her cheek, a reenactment beyond comparison of Tony's tender caress. She turns her face away from his defiling hands.

"Don't touch her!" Tony shouts madly, launching for Larkin in a mad attempt at an attack. Invisible chains hold him back but the anger is only intensified.

"Ahh," Larkin says thrilled. "You're oddly fond of this human, aren't you?" He lets his eyes travel between the two, seeing how Tony is itching to choke him. Ziva doesn't understand why he isn't by his throat right now. Perhaps because, as he mentioned, the wer by the door, the door and the wer outside. "Exactly what I hoped for, my brother."

Ziva notices how Tony cringes at Larkin's name-calling. Ziva spots shame on his face, but he turns away.

"Okay, I'll fight," he says through gritted teeth. He tenses, then throw a gaze in the direction of her. What is he thinking? Not understanding, Ziva subtly observes the exchange of obvious rivalry in the air. Larkin seems almost amused by the hatred that is coming off in waves from Tony; he is annoyingly confident in his own power. Unfortunately the Israeli hasn't had a chance to know just how many wers that Larkin has brought with him. Maybe Tony knows, but they are not alone, and they need to if she is going to give her partner the information the team has found on him.

"Ah, the voice of reason is finally getting through your head, Tony. That's good," the scarred man points out, smirking. He begins to walk along the walls of the room. Then he addresses the both of them. "You've killed two of my pack mates. That's not good. And Tony –" He smiles wickedly " –you have killed three additionally. While the two of the sum of five weren't sanctioned, I am willing to oversee that error, …. if your lovely human join our pack," he suggest.

Sensing this is a matter between the two wers, Ziva keeps quiet even though he looks at her awaiting. She won't give him that satisfaction.

"I won't hand her over as meat for you," Tony spits.

Larkin smiles. "She'll be a valuable asset, I promise you. Her skills of healing will be appreciated, Anthony." His green eyes glint in the dawn of a deal, the appreciation not lost on Ziva; he loves to watch Tony squirm, delighted by the hatred of his so-called brother. The brunette has no idea why the psychotic wer has chosen Tony for the Initiation, but the way Larkin calls Tony "brother" seems too intimate.

"Let. Her. Go," her partner growls warningly, a threatening edge in his tone. Tension rises, linking the two wers. Ziva realizes just how little she actually knows of wers; she can visibly see the territorial instincts between Larkin and Tony, despite the common belief that wolves travel in packs. Even if Larkin wants Tony to join, he needs her partner to surrender. Larkin is _the _Alpha wolf, but what is Tony? The new beta?

_**(BREAK)**_

"A warehouse in Annapolis," Abby gasps the second time after she has drunken blood. This time, she has seen the horrid scene of Tony's mind, shifting between human form and wolf. The blood spatter and wounds are the same in both, but it is amazing how much Tony's train of thoughts shift when he is in his wer form. It brings her to a new level of understanding of wers. However feudal vampires and wers may be, the travel down Tony's mind has changed her view on the wer race. They are, indeed, very alike.

"Are you sure?" McGee asks. His hand is supporting her back, keeping her from falling backwards unto the floor like the last time. Now properly placed on a chair in her lab, secured if she might faint, it is easier the second time around. The rush is, however, just as overwhelming. Her taste buds are racing and her throat is enjoying the delicious taste of rich (slightly) human blood. She isn't repulsed by the wer blood, only the idea. Beforehand she doubted if drinking Tony's blood would ever be right; now, as images and thoughts rearrange themselves along her own memories, she can clearly see the advantage of blood memory. She just feels bad that she is excited about it.

"Yes," she states, nodding. She tries to compartmentalize the rush of blood. Even though she hasn't slept for two days, she now feels refreshened and filled with energy. Strangely, she is not tempted to taste more of the blood. Odd.

Tim types the key words in and searches for a warehouse complex in Annapolis. It has been twenty minutes since they got the call, but Abby has only just gotten confirmation; Ziva is, indeed, the same place as Tony – and the wer is worried about her, according to his memories – and both are taken by wers. More specifically, the Craven pack, and their leader, Larkin. Tim has pulled a picture up of the wer in his human form (it's from an arrest). Tim is currently breaking the sealed records from Larkin's past. From what Tony's memories have told her, Larkin is still the grimly vicious wer he was three years ago when he changed Tony.

Abby feels her protectiveness overcome her. She is fond of all members of Team Gibbs; the augmenter is like a father to them, even though he has Kelly, who Abby personally thinks she sees too little. She has no idea how long Ziva is going to be at NCIS, but their hostility toward her evaporated once Tony was taken, and especially now where she's in the claws of Larkin.

A new scent in the room alerts her and for a moment, she is doubting whether it's Tony's memories tricking her or really someone new entering her lab. It is known throughout the office of NCIS that she doesn't want people here who're unneeded. She spins around – Timmy too busy with his monitors and searches – to see the _official_ redhead of NCIS. She clenches her jaw as she thinks of Grace and her rudeness. Accompanied by Jenny is Kelly Gibbs.

"Director! Kelly!" she shrieks excitedly, but nearly loses her balance as she tries to step up. Tim barely catches her. "Dammit," she mutters under her breath. Kelly is with her instantly.

"You okay, Abby?" the teenager asks, concerned. The director looks quite pale with the proximity between the forensic scientist and the agent-in-charge's daughter. Once Kelly is sure that Abby truly is okay, the hug is inevitable. Even though she has drunken blood, Abby contains herself, turning the hug somewhat stiff and awkward but genuine.

"Director." Tim acknowledges her presence but returns to the three monitors, his fingers skating across the keyboard. Though the weak smiles are hopeful, there is a tension in the room that is entirely based on the fact that two agents were taken.

"Update me, Abby," Sheppard orders mildly. Abby knits her brows over the fact that Kelly is even here – with Gibbs out there – with the director. Blue eyes meet and a pair of emeralds tries to break it, but then Abby exhales – unnecessary.

"Yes. Thirty minutes ago, Ziva and Gibbs entered the apartment complex that I saw through.." Abby cuts herself off, looking at Kelly, unsure if she should continue. This causes the teenager to look pissed.

"Proceed."

Abby swallows. "I went to an informant that told me about blood memory. It's hard to explain, but basically, if I taste the blood, I establish a link between me and the source's memories. Chris Roan, the dead wer at Tony's apartment, his blood lead us top the apartment complex that was apparently inhabited by the Craven wers. Ziva and Gibbs went there and while Gibbs cleared the upper floor, Ziva was attacked by at least two wers. One died, and has been ID'd as Mason Matthews, but Ziva was taken."

Neither of the newcomers look surprised, but Kelly is nevertheless cringing. It is amazing how the strawberry-blonde Mini-Gibbs is around the pariahs of NCIS. Kind, caring and respectful. It is hard to believe that her and Gibbs are so closely related, even though they possess the same qualities. Suddenly Abby cannot hold her question back anymore.

"Did we get the feed?" she asks hopefully.

"Yes. Mr. Beal acquired it." Jenny leans over to type in the corresponding file number and password. Abby briefly and discreetly memorizes it – if needed in the future. Tim quickly pulls the video from several video cameras and the mixed feed from several sources plays along chronologically. This Beal guy is good, Abby notes mentally.

In front of them, a video of a Chevy driving hastily but below the speeding limits away from the apartment complex. It is dark blue, a common color and model. Abby cannot hold the sigh in. Disappointed but not discouraged, she opens a video analyzing program, downloading the footage. After a minute of readjusting, she has the vehicle's plate number and registration to a Conrad Reyes – assumed the second wer and the one that took Ziva.

"Fortunately for us, Conrad Reyes leads us directly to the lair," Abby states, Timmy in-sync at the last three words.

"And it's a warehouse complex in Annapolis, D.C." McGee declares proudly then high-fives Abby.

"Call Jethro right away, m'dear," it comes from Ducky who has appeared behind the small entourage of the lab which is getting awfully crowded. Then Abby senses that he might not be referring to the warehouse complex.

"What is it, Ducky?" Abby asks.

"Oh, I reexamined Chris Roan's body – after McGee conferred with him through his ability – and something odd came up," the elder ME explains.

"Are you able to see him, Agent McGee?" the director asks, as if she should have been informed.

"Yes, but I am not exactly in any position to threaten him, madam director. He isn't intimidated and knows he's dead. Insists on taking his secrets with him to the grave, though he has already given up minor information," Tim explains.

"That's new," Kelly points out weakly. She totters a little, sinking into the background. She doesn't seem too well. In fact, she has taken on a sickly pale color that worries Abby.

"Ducky.." the goth says, alarming the doctor before Kelly touches her forehand with the back of her hand.

"God, Kelly, you're burning up," Abby informs her, able to see the waves of heat coming off the young woman. It is enough to alert everyone – even McGee, who is dialing Gibbs' number. Depending on their proximity, people either step back or rush to Kelly's help.

And just then, the monitor with McGee's sealed records program informs them that it has cracked the decryption.

_**(BREAK)**_

Gibbs receives the text first, but only gets the message when McGee calls. However, even though the caller-ID says McGee, it is the voice of Jen that answers.

"Jethro?"

"Jen?" the Hunter asks, astounded, then proceeds. "Ya got that footage?"

"Well, yeah, but that's not it. Kelly just fainted in Abby's lab, Jethro. She is awfully pale, but she wasn't sick this morning. Has it happened before? An allergy perhaps?"

Gibbs is certain that it's not Kelly's allergic reaction to peanuts she is talking about. No, Kelly fainting has only happened a few times – and suddenly Gibbs knows what she is talking about. "Yes. If she gets too close with too many.. supernaturals, she can't handle it. She goes overdrive, Jen. Get her out of the room and give her some space. Give her some painkillers for the headaches if they're heavy," Jethro informs his boss worriedly.

"Thank god, Jethro..," the ex-agent replies, relieved.

"Anything else?" Gibbs forces himself to press unto more important matters. He trusts Jen; even if all instincts are telling him to go to Kelly and check up on her.

"Yes, quite a lot. Abby and McGee has tracked the wers to a warehouse in Annapolis. McGee is sending you the address. Abby confirmed that Ziva is with Tony and Larkin," the director relays, handing the phone to his junior agent.

"Boss, I've cracked the sealed court records on Larkin," McGee says hesitantly, then swallows. Gibbs can almost feel the sweat appearing on his forehead. "Larkin's parents are Jane Rodriguez and Antonio Frank DiNozzo."

Gibbs can entirely understand the younger agent's hesitation. His heart almost stops at the vital information. His blood freezes. There are no such thing as coincidence; Larkin is Tony's half-brother.

_**(BREAK)**_

Ziva has to turn her head away as she watches from across the room, unable to do anything. After Larkin toyed with Tony a little, he ordered another wer, named Rake (who is notedly bandaged) to initiate Tony. Fearing Gibbs' description of the ritual is on the spot, Ziva prayed to God, by her Star of David that he wouldn't get hurt. Even then, Larkin stayed to watch her horrification at the way Tony easily transformed into the largest wolf, Rake doing the same.

Suddenly she recognizes the opponent – Rake – as one of the wers that attacked her and Tony, which explains the aggressiveness in Tony's offenses.

The brownest of the wolves – Tony – ferociously leaps toward the semi-transformed Rake who in his dark coat of fur nearly camouflages with the background. Though some of her wounds are healed, the head case is taking its time, mainly because she is conscious. She cannot afford to not be right now, though it is with dread and horror she watches her wild partner attack like a blood-thirsty animal. Larkin just stands by although blood is spilled.

She hopes for an opening, but her hands are literary tied even though she wrestles. Even if she breaks her thumb, it is no certainty that she will escape the tight-knotted rope. She has rope burns although, but it a pain worth withstanding. Her deep brown eyes are on the vicious fight between the wolves, appearing like a dog fight between mutts, except for the size and the rabid movements. She firmly believes that Tony did consciously transfigure, but she has no idea whether or not it is Tony thinking, or the savaging beast taking over. It is a bigger concern, even if he sent her an apologizing gaze before the fight. It is obviously he doesn't like letting his wer out.

Ziva regrets and truly feels remorse for taunting Tony; she has, ever since Gibbs explained to her what he deals with, been sorry for the accusations she has made, teasing him endlessly. In the month they've been working together, he hasn't let her down, always being there – even if the master vampire is chewing on the neck of you. She has proven herself to the team, despite her sudden arrival with no explanation, and Tony has indeed proven himself – wer or not – to be a stable partner. Someone she can count on, which is exactly what she needs. She has escaped her father's claws by coming to the United States of America, and NCIS is the haven Jenny has provided. While she cannot truly relax – supernaturals are dangerous – she feels partly safe here, welcome despite the reactions of the team.

As someone once told her, _character is who you are under pressure, not when everything is fine_. In this moment of sheer forgetfulness, she cannot remember where the quote is from. Team Gibbs has a habit of protecting each other, and it even extends to the director and the harbingers, Jimmy and Grace, who have the gift of foresight.

A sharp intake of breath comes from Ziva when two rows of giant teeth bites down and the other wer yelps in pain. It sends shivers down her spine, and she observes out of the corner of her eye that even Larkin flinches in momentary weakness. It all happens very quickly, but the brown-coated wer's canines are pulling in something out of Rake's stomach. Soon he is not moving. A new horror has shed its light on the wer race. The Initiation is far worse than she'd imagined. To watch her partner commit murder so primally is something she wish she could wash away and forever forget. His snout is covered in blood, his eyes oddly vicious and for a moment, Ziva actually thinks he is going to attack Larkin, who even in his human form seems primal. She sees no reasons not to; the Alpha has kept Tony in a short leash, and this is a moment where he can have the element of surprise. However, the wolf's eyes fall upon Ziva with concern written across them and he transfigures into a human, bare on his back. A superficial (but bacteria-infected) wound matching the brown wolf is placed on his shoulder, equal to the wolf's side. Ziva launches forward, but is stopped by the rope and chains.

"Go, heal him, Healer. We wouldn't want our new Alpha to die during the process, would we?" Larkin reveals manically, cutting the ropes with a knife she recognizes as her own. The chains are still on her ankles, and she feels imprisoned, enslaved. Yet she thoughtlessly scoops over to Tony, whose breath is heavy. Larkin throws shorts in his direction and Ziva waits till he is decent before she places her hands tenderly unto the sore skin around the bite. Though superficial, she can see that it will be a full-blown infection in a few hours. She lets go off the fact that Larkin is watching her closely. Her healing touch extends like a longer arm into Tony, healing his fragile aura and closing the wound as if he was never bitten. It exhausts her and she nearly faints, but in the presence of the Craven pack, she forces herself to stay awake, only having Tony to catch her fall.

**Review!**


	7. Cries of the Wolves: Path Not Taken

**A/N: **It's been forever, and I apologize greatly. Until this day, I didn't know what to place in this chapter, only knowing what would happen afterwards. I putted it off until my conscience grew too unclean. Anyway, the last part is bad because I'm horrible at writing fighting scenes, especially when you think about it: it's a wolf fight. English is not my first language and I'm so, so sorry if it's too terrible to read. Imagine the fight between them, if you will. I find Requiem For A Dream a great motivator.

**Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS**

**Chapter VII: Path Not Taken**

Even though Tony is only semi-conscious, he can feel the way his wounds heal and his strength increases. The fatigue and exhaustion fade away, belittling. It takes him awhile to sober up, but before this, he, quite instinctually, grabs Ziva who falls into his lap. Piecing the puzzle together, he blinks a couple of time, the stale air of the room returning to his senses. Although his vision is still blurry, his other senses are returning rather quickly, especially now where he is fully recovered. The reason to that is currently in his arms, which he figures out.

Ziva, a healer? He tries not to look surprised but knows that the wer sense of smell that Larkin also possesses will read him. The Alpha wer is in the corner, his smirk arrogant yet oddly impressed. The brunette Israeli is slowly regaining consciousness, her eyes flickering behind their lids. The glow in her olive skin is lacking, but the sudden, choking intake of breath she takes, followed by gasping, makes it seem like she is waking up from the dead. Tony supports her back, not really minding that he is barely clad or that his fiercest enemy is intruding a very private moment. Asking her whether or not she is okay in his presence seems like an insult. Instead, their eyes speak a softer, unspoken language that makes him let out a sigh of relief.

"Well, well," Larkin states, clearly amused by the scene playing out. Tony tenses his toned muscles at this far too intimate scrutiny. "Healing isn't as easy as they make it out on TV, huh, Tone?"

Despite the lack of visual confirmation, Tony can feel Ziva flinch whenever Larkin speaks. It is the rough edginess of the accent that cuts through the air with a blend of inexplicable charm and cold numbness. Tony can already tell that Ziva is good at reading people (which he already knew; having spent almost a month in the company of having Ziva David as partner). Despite his instant dislike of her, mostly due to the uncertainty of her origins, they have grown to _almost_ trust each other.

Although she should shudder at his mere presence, having seen him transition, she leans into him while she recuperates. Her small fingers, usually lethal, grasp at his chest, her eyes slowly opening. Chocolate-brown orbs meet the kindness of the sea-green ones, as the moment is ruined by the clearing of a throat, namely one of Larkin.

Two equal pairs of burning glares are sent in his direction; Ziva's body tense next to him while she crawls out of his reach, retracting per Larkin's silent request even though it obviously bothers her. The wer instincts flare like sparks between them, Rebel against Alpha. Identical masks of territorial instinct burn on their faces, alit in their equally identical eyes. Normally, one would think that it'd be a result of the wer virus having altered the retinas of both parties, but in this case, it isn't purely coincidental; Tony hates to admit it, but Larkin is _(vaguely) _right, brothers they be. He knows Ziva's intellectual mind won't be slow to make that observation, Larkin having called him "brother" often since she arrived.

"Nana would be merry that you have found someone to take care of you. Though she never thought you needed one," the dark-haired Alpha states, preparing his scarred hans for battle. The powdered substance is white like talcum but Tony knows for sure that Larkin would never use that "silly athlete girl" powder. He likes the raw power of the inner bestiality of the wer nature. And Tony's features darken as he realizes the gleam of attraction in Larkin's eyes whenever he gazes upon Ziva. Whether friendly, platonic or sexual, his interest worries Tony and he instinctually moves to warn off Larkin's eyeing.

"Nana had a lot of wise words in her younger days," Tony replies coolly. He slowly rises from the ground, his newfound strength ebbing for violence and the thing between Larkin and Ziva a great motivator. Larkin has always taken what isn't his. Not that Ziva belongs to Tony, but she sure as hell doesn't belong to a maniac like Kenneth Larkin.

"Still do," Larkin says, toying with Tony just like he used to.

"Haven't been to New York for awhile, so you'd know, right?" Tony remarks in return, a snick on its way to his lips. Uneven teeth are bared, uneven due to the wer outbreak in the system still rushing through the veins, pure adrenaline beating throughout his body. He holds himself back, knowing that Ziva is still too close not to get hurt if they both transform. But, these days, because of the heavy amount of letting his true colors shine, the wer just beneath the surface, lurking, controlled by tight reins, but nevertheless strong and flaring its direct hatred against one subject: Larkin. The reason why he's here, why he's a wer, why he spent his childhood always watching over his shoulders whenever his father insisted that they should spent time together.

_**Flashback**_

_He had barely mourned his mother – or so it seemed – when his father first brought his half-bother to the house. He had shown no disrespect, but simply by conjuring another brother felt like replacing his mother. Marilyn Paddington wasn't merely his mother; she had been the centre of the family in the eight months prior to her death, the only thing he and his father seemed to have in common. Anthony, ten years old, couldn't find a way to control his grief, stricken between throwing tantrums of rage and retracting himself from the real world. His only comfort was his mother's piano, the only sacred object that wasn't smitten and tainted by memories of her disease._

_"Anthony?" his father called out in that formal voice, as if he was the housekeeper. For a moment, Tony rose to go to the liquor cabinet, already knowing what to serve, but then saw his father in the threshold, a boy his age by his hand. Confused, he didn't dare to question what his father undoubtedly already knew and expected him to find out on his own. Needless to say that his mother had always been his favorite parent, even with her oddities._

_"Yes, dad?" the dirty-blonde Tony replied, observing the other boy. He was a little shorter, a little younger, but his dark hair was long enough for beetles to hide. It was shaggy, like some of the boys in school kept theirs. Had Marilyn been around, a pair of scissors would have been around._

_"I'd like to introduce you to Kenneth Larkin. He's going to visit a lot, so be nice. I'm sure the DiNozzo charm will have you playing in no time!" the handsome businessman said, not doubting his word once. Tony sighed inwardly, knowing that anything but enthusiasm and gratitude wouldn't fall kindly with his father; it was an attempt to get him to play more outside, to be social._

_His father left, leaving the two boys to themselves. "Hi, my name's Larkin, don't call me Lark," the boy said, his dark hair almost making it impossible to see his eyes._

_"I got that," Tony replied hostile, contemplating whether or not to hide his rudeness. He didn't want father to be angry, but he didn't want to play with Larkin either. Sighing heavily and exaggeratedly, he spoke. "I'm Tony."_

_The day after he eavesdropped on the maid and his nanny, listening in to hear where they'd once again placed the Oreos. Martina, the new maid whose eyes were browner than he'd ever seen and had long, beautiful hair, spoke weird, with what his father called an accent. He was always too shy to talk with her like he talked to Clara, his nanny._

_"How dare he bring that boy here!" Clara whispered whilst she was talking to Helen, the cook. "His wife has been dead for two months but he cannot see that his son is still grieving. How could he? He is never around!"_

_Martina, who'd arrived after his mother's dead, shrugged. Helen spoke. "Perhaps he sees that his son needs a playmate. I never heard him tell Tony about Larkin."_

_"That's only because he has some chivalry left! Ha! He's probably gonna use that for the next wife, I am sure..," Clara said venomously._

_"Who is Larkin's mother?" Martina asked quietly._

_"You never know with Mr. DiNozzo, dear," the nanny said and Helen agreed, nodding. "Larkin is the product of an affair between him and some city girl named Jane. Mr. DiNozzo thought that it would be good to relieve the girl of the boy, but he couldn't, not with Marilyn around." Clara's tone grew faint and sad at the memory of the Mrs. DiNozzo._

_"So now where she's deceased, he can bring her here without lying?" Martina asked. Tony had recently learnt that 'deceased' was the same way of saying 'dead', just with bigger words._

_"Oh, Marilyn knew," Helen interjected. "But she wouldn't allow it. That's why Larkin is here now, not because of some moral queries he has with himself. No, Larkin is not here for Tony's sake, he's here for his father's."_

_That was when Tony learned that the reason why his own mirror reflection looked like Larkin, especially around the eyes. They were brothers. Here he had spent his whole life wishing himself a sibling and there'd always been one. Next time Larkin arrived, he hesitantly played with him, feeling objected to._

_**End of flashback.**_

"Tony?" Ziva groans, jerking the wer out of his trip down memory lane. Before New York three years ago, he hadn't seen Larkin since he was fourteen.

"Ziva." He merely says, his voice lukewarm and attention otherwise preoccupied. His eyes are still on Larkin, who moves in the shadows. The shades of the wer – a mercury cover of the irises – resurface, making him appear primal. Larkin has no idea how up-and-going he is, which is to Tony's advantage.

"Well, I've seen that your fondness of this human is rather extensive, and you're proven your point, but the only way I am gonna let both of you out of here is for you –," he leans down, catching Ziva's eyes and grabbing her chin, " – to convince him to be initiated. I'm doing this because I care for you," Larkin says with false hurt in his voice. Tony doesn't believe that he is one ounce of sincere.

Then the Alpha's eyes fall unto Ziva again. "After all, I did spent my best years with him. Remember, Tone, when father scolded us for climbing in that tree? The only time I've ever seen him truly care..."

Ziva looks shocked as the sentence jocks one of Tony's memories.

_**Flashback.**_

_"C'mon, Kenny, you're slowing us down!" Tony said, feigning annoyance but the laughter ruined the fake annoyance. Tony had a rope tied around his waist, the other end tied to Larkin, who was about six feet below. Tony sat on a larger branch in the oak tree. It had finally grown large enough for them to climb._

_The dark-haired youngling complained. "I can't reach, Tony. It's too high," he whimpered sadly, stretching his arm and proving he was telling the truth._

_"I'll help then. 'Can't have people knowing how weak my brother is," Tony laughed, climbing a little down to offer his hand – and thus, height – to his little brother, who sent him a confused, hurt gaze._

_"No, you wouldn't! 'Cause I'm not weak!" Larkin pouted, not really believing him, but nevertheless wanting to be reassured._

_"All right, then.. Not weak, just small," Tony rephrased, laughing as they both reached the branch Tony had been sitting on a minute ago, both panting from the exercise. The midday sun was shining above them, sweat sitting in cakes because of the bark of the oak tree. They'd tried climbing one or two of the other trees, but the climbing had first succeeded when they had chosen the oak._

_"Hey!" Larkin exclaimed, feigning being offended. He nearly lost his balance doing so, but Tony caught him before he fell off the branch. By doing so, Kenny ruffled up a few leaves that flew to the ground._

_"Boys!" a harsh, thunderous voice met them as Antonio Sr. approached the tree. Both boys started fidgeting, but Tony managed to calm a fuzzing Kenny. They had both heard the angry tone in that voice. It meant problems and it was more certain than a weather forecast. They started climbing down, Tony first so he could catch Kenny._

_"How many times have I told you not to climb the trees? Look at how much you've damaged the trees! Not to mention that you could have fallen down and broken your necks – irresponsible. And Anthony, you should know better!" the senior DiNozzo scolded, grabbing the oldest by the shoulders. Tony could feel the pain, but didn't object, biting his bottom lip and holding his head down in shame. Antonio DiNozzo already looked very angry, his eyes burning with fury and disappointment._

_**End of flashback.**_

"It seems you haven't been quite honest with your lady-friend here, Tony," Larkin says, waving his finger at Tony as if he'd been naughty. "And I, who thought you were so close. Maybe this healer is only waving guns because of something else..." Larkin trails off, "But then again, you never understood when exactly your girls were yours, did you? Always waiting till the last moment before working the DiNozzo angle. It worked like a charm, just like father. Yes, you could make girls come your way willingly, but you never misused that. So noble. That was why I had to claim Shirley as my own three years ago, or you would've taken her under your wing with your beliefs," the Alpha grins, spitting at the floor beside Tony.

Ziva's head peaks up at the mentioning of 'Shirley'. Tony's jaw clenches, "I am nothing like dad," he says through gritted teeth.

"This isn't about Shirley, Larkin. You made it about her, by taking Ziva, one of my friends. She has no reason to be here!" Tony yells ungratefully, trying to alienate Ziva as much as possible. Armed, Ziva is an assassin, but tied up and chained, she is just as useless as him. Ben, the guard by the door, throws gazes in their direction, but else, it is just him, Larkin and Ziva.

"Shirley was, in the end, smart enough to see my principles, after you left."

"I didn't have a choice!" Tony's words are filled with poison. "By turning me, I had no control. You had plenty – I wouldn't have made a fair Alpha and you know it! I couldn't take Shirley – she chose me!" Tony argues violently.

Larkin is frighteningly calm yet you can see that behind the surface, he is unraveling. Whether from rage or from insecurity, Tony is ready to fight back, expecting an outburst of some sorts. Ziva is quiet, knowing that this isn't her battle to fight, albeit she is better with weapons and is somehow verbally challenged (though not when it comes to threats).

* * *

><p>"Abby, I have to go," Tim excuses, eyeing the sad dhampir who looks like a kicked puppy. "It's a pack of wolves – literarily, wolves – and no matter how experienced Gibbs may be as a Hunter, he'll need backup. We have no idea in what shape Tony and Ziva are in."<p>

"Ziva could've healed them," she supplies quickly, trying to convince him to let down easy.

"Timothy is right, m'dear," Ducky reckons. "I am sorry, but I'm afraid our medium here must find a rather aggressive way to support Jethro in his retrieval of Anthony and Ziva."

"Besides," the feisty director adds suddenly. "You won't be going in alone." She attaches a SIG Sauer to her belt, appearing very impassive and suddenly looks like exactly what she has been; an agent. The silver bullets are stocked in the two magazines. Ducky, Grace, Jimmy, Abby and Tim all stare at her, baffled. Then Tim nods, accepting the prompt partnership.

"You'll need these," the young dhampir offers, handing over twin blades of silver. Jen raises her brows at the gesture, indicating to her own blade at the waist, following Gibbs' protocol rule nine.

"They thought they could handle them single-handed," Abby says, gesturing to the two pictures taken from the federal IDs they carry, pictures of Tony and Ziva separately on the monitor.

"Good point," Tim points out, then doesn't waste a second more, filling Jen in on the way to the sedans. Kelly is left behind in Ducky and Grace's care.

"Think they'll be able to put the wers down, Ducky?" Abby asks, tearing up. She worries for everyone, and is the essence of the NCIS unit. Her voice is fragile, but she keeps it together due to her vampiric genes. The barriers the immortal set for the mortals are ones Abby is beginning to experience herself. She is calmer than she was this morning but she won't admit that her drinking blood is why she is only fragile and not broken in this relentless hunt.

"I do not know, Abigail, but I am certain that Jethro will not allow himself to waver again. He cares a great deal for Anthony, and Jennifer has much appreciation for Ziva. They won't return without them," the elderly telepath assures the dhampir. He claps her hands, covering them with his own aged ones. His tone chippers mildly. "Now, help me with young Miss Kelly, she should be better now where Timothy and Jennifer have left."

Abby reluctantly follows, the scent of the newest members in this fox – wolf – hunt now gone. Sighing heavily, she heads to assist Ducky.

* * *

><p>Ziva is now aware that healing a wer takes more of her strength, and seemingly, Tony is less effected by the exhaustion her 'patients' usually experience. Unfortunately, the information she now stores in her mind tells her that it means nothing right now, because Larkin won't let them go easily. The harsh, verbal battle between the brothers is turning into something else.<p>

Yes, Ziva was utterly surprised to hear that the brutal wer is related anyhow to her partner. At first, she didn't believe it, allowing herself to write it off as the wer brotherhood but it wasn't as simple. Sharing a father, the two wers – one having turned the other – are suddenly very alike in their features. The eyes especially, she mentally notes. Apparently, it isn't just the eyes they have shared, but this 'Shirley' too. After having eavesdropped on her father for years, Ziva now possesses a great ability to slide into the background and absorb valid information, sorting through casual conversation and meaningful words of importance. In seven eight different languages, nonetheless, excluding her own mother tongue.

Mating isn't on the list of things she believed about the wer. Actually, it seems kinda primal, but the Craven pack has proven its brutality by images of violence. The Initiation Gibbs talked about is real and it's right here, in the midst of this room. Ziva has no idea how many wers – in human form or not – that her partner has fought, but she can still feel the wounds and injuries she closed. The fact that Tony has a past with someone who is now Larkin's mate unnerves her. Displeases her. But she has no right to make that judgment. She has already accepted his lycanthropy, something she cannot take back, even if she wished to.

"You have her, fine by me. But you came here, coming to _**me... **_for what?" Tony snarls, his scantily clad body aggressively turned against the Alpha, matching his height.

"I have bee trying to explain it to you. I've chosen you, Tony, to join the pack and endorse your true nature. I need you to be an Alpha," Larkin reveals and gazes at Ziva. "Even if it means doing what I myself would have killed you three years ago for doing to Shirley."

Unexpectedly, and something Tony should have seen coming, but didn't, Larkin rapidly changes form, still with a face when claws break through Ziva's skin, in what could be an accidental messy change, but purely intentional. Larkin doesn't have the word damage control in his vocabulary, and as a result, Tony doesn't even notice this time how his own body transfigures, altering bone and muscle structure. When he blinks, he opens his eyes with a wer's sight, perfected and gazing at a more raw wolf. He can smell Ziva's blood in the air and even though they haven't known each other for more than a month, they are partners to have each other's back. Defending her is an instinct, wer or not.

Outrageously, he goes for Larkin's neck, even though they are circling each other. Another one of Larkin's tricks. His nostrils flare with anger and true resentment. For the first time in the last two days, he is certain that he wants to harm his brother in the worst possible way, no matter what blood is between them. He has never liked his father, but the biggest betrayal he ever performed (and yet oddly the most comforting at the time) was bringing Kenneth Larkin into Tony's life. Sure, being a wer has taught him patience and self-control. It has taught him modesty and humbleness. It has given him an insight over how Larkin felt every time he saw his confident older brother. Beneath, weak. It fuels him to fight, knowing that what Larkin is fighting is his own creation, just as Tony partly believes that he has been the cause to why Larkin turned out this way.

When Tony turned eleven, he was shipped off to boarding schools, rarely returning home. His father had arranged for Kenneth to stay with their grandmother, their Nana. Boarding schools changed Tony into what he had to become, while Nana's upbringing and comfort was just what Larkin needed in the light of their father's strict behavior. Tony knows that he has created Larkin as much as Larkin had when he bit him that night three years ago.

He is thrown back when Larkin shovels into him, using his entire body weight and leaving Tony's wolf form squeezed between the brick wall and the Alpha. Bones crack, ribs bruise, but Tony ignores it, returning the favor with twice the amount of force. The wolf he has been trying to suppress the last three years is released and he doesn't give much thought to hesitation because he knows that Larkin won't, and it was the Alpha that initiated the fight.

He can smell that his little brother is bleeding from his flank, and he's limping on his hind leg himself, but the bitter taste of blood in his mouth is motivating. Seeing red is not a figure of speech anymore. Larkin retracts and suddenly jerks forward, leaps into the air and hits Tony's spine, his canines straying Tony's ear.

He yelps in pain, but recuperates, as they synchronically leap toward each other, canines bared in masks of true savage, gleams of territorial instincts in their orbs. Paws are stiff with blood and claws and when they collide in the air, the impact is what resolves and thus, crowns the winner.

None of them are truly human anymore.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I know that Larkin's mother (mentioned in the previous chapter) was Jane (due to a very unimaginative imagination) Rodriguez, and his father was Antonio Frank DiNozzo. Knowing that it'd be way too confusing on my account for Tony's father to be named the same, leading to potential misunderstanding of who Larkin's father was, I changed DiNozzo Sr.'s name to Antonio. As you've probably found out, Larkin spent a fair amount of time with his nana, Mrs. Larkin, who kept her maiden name. Larkin accepted this name instead of his father's or his mother's so there's your answer why Larkin's last name is Kenneth Larkin. I'll be happy to explain the parentage if you're confused. <strong>_


	8. Cries of the Wolves: Alpha Test Done

**A/N: **So, last chapter of "Cries of the Wolves", the first part in the Albeit Abnormal series. I'll continue the story on this story, which is why I haven't marked the story 'complete'. I hope you're satisfied with the end, 'cause I think it's a bit weird, but it'll have to do. I am playing with some ideas to the next part and haven't named the story yet.

REVIEW, please :D

**Disclaimer: **I do not own NCIS or its characters.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VII: Alpha Test Done<strong>

They meet about a mile from the location. The look of mixed disapproval and gratitude Gibbs sends Jenny speaks volume, but McGee chooses to ignore it. Coming from them, the lecturing about co-worker fraternization – Gibbs' infamous rule twelve – is almost hilarious, subtly. McGee ignores it, knowing that he'll never have the guts to actually voice this inside joke, and it is uncalled for in a situation like this. He knows when to shut up; working under Gibbs has taught him that – but it hasn't taught Tony the same. Tony, who is currently undergoing a brutal initiation held by vicious wers, with Ziva. That much Abby is certain of. The dhampir is at the lab with Ducky and the twins. However, sensing Abby's dislike of Grace, the harbinger has probably retracted for the night. McGee's unaware if she has plans tonight and the thought of asking her makes him blush.

There's no SWAT team, only the sore sight of three NCIS agents. McGee wouldn't call this kind of investigation "neutral", but they started it. The wers. He doesn't know that much about lycanthropy, only that Tony changes thrice a month and doesn't talk about it unless he's goofing around. It's too personal, and it's a line between them they don't cross. Nobody in NCIS is totally human (Ziva having been revealed as a healer), but Tony and him have a rule about not mocking the other's abilities. Tony knows how much Tim struggles with visions of the dead, so he doesn't tease him endlessly about it. More mundane things, however, such as Tim's computer-savvy skills, are not off-limits. Flashing their extraordinary skills are not restricted, but the director doesn't approve and neither does Gibbs. It's hard enough to argue that monsters fighting monsters isn't biased, according to Jenny, though she used more politically correct terms. It means the same, and McGee understands. He's glad that he's found a place where people accepts him. Where he belongs.

His sister is the lucky one. The normal one, who didn't inherit their grandfather's genetic ability to see and talk to the dead. He doesn't blame her, but sometimes he wishes he'd had the chance of the carefree life she is living instead of psychologists prying his brain during his childhood. No, Sarah's a good person who deserves what she gets – nothing of the family curse. Though in this case, him being a medium turned out to be a good thing. It felt weird, seeing a dead wer. Not mentally, but physically – something he's never experienced before. The sensations he had was almost as if the wer's aura collided with his own. Of course, it could just have been Chris Roan's hostility he misread. Anyway, he is grateful that he's able to help because feeling useless is a feeling he doesn't like or embrace. Especially when it comes to a team member. Sure, Tony might be obnoxious and immature, but he's Tony. He is supposed to be goofy and the immature tormentor. He's the closest thing Tim has had to an older brother.

Used to watching the dead as a medium, McGee observes the professionalism between his boss and the director. The sylph is graceful in her movements and it's all routine. He knows they have a past, but it seems like they have worked more together than he originally thought. Anyway, he is not slow to react when his boss hands him an assault riffle. With silver ammo, of course. Vampires and wers have the same reaction to silver. It paralyzes vampires – though dhampirs are immune to its touch – and burns lycanthropes. Vampires' skin boil shortly if a silver bullet hits an artery. It prevents them from absorbing power from blood – others' and their own, though Tim has read an article about a vampire who managed to feed and thus survive. Technical terms are never consistent when you work with supernaturals.

Tim focuses on the task ahead, not wanting to consider if this is another diversion. But he also has trust in Abby's newfound ability though it worries him. They don't know what consequences ingesting wer blood will have to a dhampir. Even on a cellular level wers and vampires don't mix well.

"Everybody ready?" Gibbs asks, and Tim can see the inner Marine in him. He can also feel a strange sensation of power which he suspects is Gibbs' abilities as an augmenter working its magic. He doesn't dare to ask, but he is thankful for the power boost. They'll need it if there's more wers than bullets (which he highly doubts but supernaturals have a habit of surprising everyone).

After all, they have no idea what they're walking into.

* * *

><p>The wer by the door – Ben? – stares at the fight, more amazed than herself, obviously ordered not to break it off. Yet Ziva finds herself entranced, too. Even her training says that this amount of blood is dangerous. Of course, in wolf form the body can hold more blood, but it's gotta be more than healthy. Both wolves have crimson coats of fur, blood from the raging fight. Wounds where the blood wickedly drips from like a morbid painting. It gleams like gems in the moonlight, rubies embedded in the fur. Tony's brown coat is glinting with sweat and blood, but so is Larkin. His blackish coat just hides the fact better and he's accustomed to fighting. Tony isn't, not in this form. Shapeshifting tires the body, that much she knows. The horror playing before her eyes is truly sickening, and each crack, howl and growl is duly noted. Ziva wants to turn her dead away, but she watches as she wiggles her hands free. She's nearly there when she realizes how big a crowd has gathered around Tony and Larkin.<p>

Their eyes gleam with the human range of emotion. Excitement. Fear. Blood-thirst. Anger. Disgust. Anticipation. Awe. Aggression. Disapproval.

She counts about eleven wers, counting the one by the door whose jaw is tense. There's both male and female lycanthropes, some waif-like in submission, others hurt, some stoic (or trying to be) and firm. Young and old. It surprises her that there's a wer, fifteen years at most, whose eyes flicker from the wers to the fight like a tennis match observer. Ziva keeps her eyes on her, seeing the moment her head pops up and her nostrils flare. She's smelled something. Just then, shots ring out. The wers spring to action, some transforming, others looking for weapons. Chaos enures.

She breaks free from the chains, quick on her feet to attack the nearest wer that is coming toward her. It is easy for her to find the strength to thrust her elbow into the wer behind her, while charging a kick in the direction of the charging wer. Its light fur flies back with the body, temporarily incapacitating it. But there's plenty of wers to go, and her training kicks in. She is trained extensively in mortal combat, and although she's just human, the wers are scattered and in chaos.

Relief and joy overwhelm her as she sees Gibbs break through the door. It does, however, distract her from the task at hand and gives the black-skinned man (who she assumes is a wer) an opening. The fist lands in her stomach and every inch of air is pressed out of her lungs. Knuckles in solar plexus aren't to be recommended. Furiously and stubbornly, she recovers, forcing herself to stand although she has a hard time breathing. A bruised, or perhaps broken rib.

Shouts coming from both sides are heard, but she is deafened by the scene playing out. Stray bullets of silver hit their targets, some don't. She ducks for cover and sees the newbie, the teenage wer, desperately trying to hide in the corner. Ziva runs to her side, ducking and pressing her back to the wall, her instincts taking over. In the middle of this, Larkin and Tony is wrestling. Somewhere in this, her partner is hurt and bestial.

She has miscalculated the kid. It happens, but late she'll bite her tongue because of it. The teen wer sees her, widens her eyes and charges toward her, attacking. The canines are the size of a German shepherd's but it stings like hell and Ziva hesitates before landing a kick in the youngling's flank. It yelps in pain and submits. Her forearm, infected by the wer disease and slowly stinging before growing numb, leaves her to use her left arm, cradling the right into her chest. Others need her help. She stops herself from healing, intending to use the powers for fighting.

Just as the final shots fire, the cry from a wolf is heard. Everybody freezes, as if magically sensing that something's wrong. The wers back off, clearing the area, awaiting orders. Ziva has always believed that pack hierarchy was a myth, that they didn't actually feel the Alpha as they claimed in movies. But no, everyone grows quiet as the dust settles. Electricity is in the air, blending with the scent of blood and sweat and wolf and gun powder. Three agents stand with assault riffles, Jen nearly on the ground before gun-butting a wer in the snout.

Eyes are aimed on the fight in the middle of the warehouse. One wer dumps a lifeless wer as far as he can throw with his throat. His breast is red by blood and exposing a bad wound. His breath is heavy and his yellow eyes are wild and savaging. The Alpha position has changed.

Tony is left standing. Larkin is dead by his paw.

* * *

><p>It is quick to determine who submits and who won't follow the new leader. The submissive wers bow their head, wagging their tails slowly. The agents await action. Now even Gibbs reacts until a sandy wer morphs into a tall, blonde man and walks to Tony who is in his wolf form. When the wer gives him a respective gaze solitude, Tony transfigures. The man hands him a pair of the shorts that seem to be never-ending in the warehouse, stored for this use.<p>

Tony totters for balance, but meets the man's eyes. "I fought you," he says solemnly and with a responsible edge Ziva is yet to have seen.

"Yes. And I survived," the wer states. His voice is throaty, but Tony's is completely hoarse. "My name is Calvin Reuben Grayson. Most of these wers call me Cal. I acknowledge the fact that you are the new Alpha."

Tony seems a little surprised, but then speaks, talking to the whole crowd. "I was taken because of personal connections to Larkin. Some of me may recognize me from New York three years ago."

Recognition is seen on some of the faces. "Who's Larkin's second-in-command?"

There's quiet until a female steps forward. "You defeated him. His name was Chris," she speaks and faces the new Alpha defiantly, her eyes burning with rage although she can't be more than five-six. Her long, straight blonde hair conceals some of her face but Ziva suddenly recognizes her. She's the mad wer that attacked her earlier. It's obvious her loyalty lies with Larkin.

"Shirley, don't," one of the other wers warn.

"Shirley?" Tony says flabbergasted as if he can't believe she's here.

The blonde ignores his comment. "I was the mate of Larkin. You killed him in a fair fight as a part of your Initiation. I acknowledge the fact, but I won't serve the Craven pack without the Alpha."

"I can't be your Alpha," Tony states obviously. Ziva sees the gazes he's receiving. From Jen. Admiration albeit hidden. Gibbs. Realization and pride over newfound responsibility. McGee. Confusion, but also awe.

"Then I can take your place," the wer named Calvin offers. "Respectfully, I can do it without showing submission. I have thought Larkin's ways wrong these past months. I have followers. The way Larkin lead this pack is questionable, but, with your permission, let us go back to New York and turn things around."

"You need to be held accountable for the things done," Gibbs grunts.

Calvin's friendly and respectful tone turns icy for a moment, as if it's disrespect not to talk through the Alpha. "The person responsible for your accusations is dead, Hunter. We will not stir trouble if we get to leave peacefully."

"Everybody whose loyalty lies with Larkin will be held accountable. I name Calvin as an Alpha in my place. I cannot leave DC., but I won't support the continual of this behavior. Act like decent creatures!" Tony is careful not to say "humans". "You won't be hunted if you leave your former ways. But I can ensure you that if you go anywhere with Larkin's principles, you will be hunted. Some of you will be killed. I command you to consider your choices."

Most of the wers obey. They listen to their new leader. They gaze between Calvin and Tony. "What about hunting grounds?" a particularly brave wer asks.

"Preying on humans is illegal by law. I can personally assure you that that view on lycanthropy is wrong," Tony says icily. His knuckles turn white as his eyes travel onto the crowd. "I know of Larkin's rules. You are no longer bound by the pack if you do not wish to be here, but I know that only packs will truly understand the nature of wers," Tony elaborates, eyeing Ziva and Tim, smiling vaguely. "Anybody who stays in DC will be welcome, under my survey, to live a life as a wer. You can follow Cal, too. But if there's a wer murderer, human or of any other living beings, I will know where to look."

* * *

><p>Once the situation calms down, Tony and Ziva join the rest. Jen and Jethro watch as the partners help each other through the midst, Ziva's hands softly guiding the way. They eye each other, knowing that the tension between the two is gone, evaporated. No team building like being kidnapped by the most ferocious pack in North-America. It has built trust. Jenny senses that Gibbs won't be coming to her office demanding a transfer for young Agent David any time soon. Or Agent DiNozzo, for that matter.<p>

"Tony, I can heal you," Ziva offers persistently. Her body is slowly regenerating itself, per her own request, but she is white as a sheet, her usually olive glow gone. Exhaustion follows quickly and as much as she tries to conceal it, the wers around them can smell it.

"No, Ziva, you already did it once. Look at yourself!" At this, she quirks a brow, but decides to let it slip. "There's another healer," he says slowly. "Not like you, but she knows a bit of medicine. Her name's Olive. Olivia."

Ziva leaves hesitantly, her partner looking bruised and bloodied but otherwise okay. Defiantly, and so they all know things have changed, Tony meets the sapphire-blue eyes of his boss. Not the director, but Gibbs who wholeheartedly mentored him. His crisp lips break apart and he wets them before beginning to speak. "Thanks."

Gibbs merely smiles and sends his senior agent a respectful glance. It is Jenny who speaks first. "You did good, Tony."

And it is so weird to hear her say his first name, but he doesn't correct her. He smiles goofily in the best manner of Tony DiNozzo, and feels his leg jerk. His right knee buckles under him but the silver-haired ex-marine is there to catch him. "Easy, boy."

Meanwhile, Tim is helping the injured wers that have showed submission. He is talking to Cal as Tony makes his way to them. The sandy-haired wer nods his head in respect. His torso is naked from the change and he's wearing a nondescript pair of shorts like many of the Craven wers. Tony knows that nudity isn't something blasphemous amongst a wer pack, not something to be frowned upon, so several of the wers – the ones that have changed – are wearing shorts and loose tees, the females perhaps sports bras. Their skin glint with sweat on their toned bodies, their eyes all awaiting something. Larkin's body is in the corner, stacked away.

"It's messy. Some will have to be brought to the hospital," Tony states solemnly. He knows it is Cal's call if they admit themselves into hospitals. There's a few that will take in lycanthropes; everything has to be burnt afterwards, though, needles, tests, blood samples. Everything's gonna be contaminated. And Larkin viewed the human race as scums, so Tony's surprised by Cal's answer.

"I agree. Where will you take them?" His green eyes meet Tony's. He trusts Tony with his pack. Tony doesn't understand why Larkin didn't name Calvin a beta; he seems to be taking the responsibility so well. But the dirty-blonde wer knows why: Calvin doesn't support the savage of Larkin's ways.

"There's a hospital that will take in wers. But I suggest that Olivia, your... healer, and Ziva will heal as many as possible before going."

His eyes show bafflement, precaution and confusion."Will your mate be able to do that? After what they did to her?"

"She's not my mate. She's.." He hesitates, ".. my partner. Nothing else."

Cal shrugs. "Whatever you say."

They look around them, on the wers who are dead and those wounded but not enough to keep them from helping anybody else. The crimson color mars the picture of the newfound truce. But it makes Tony slightly proud to see NCIS agents and wers cooperate – especially when taking the reputations into consideration. He counts nine wers – some of which are hurt. Only two have lost their lives with Larkin. Regret is visible in Tony's eyes but he covers it up with the fatigue and exhaustion. His breath is still ragged, his vision clouding but he conceals his exhaustion, knowing that the pack needs a physically strong leader, not a weakling. Even though he has now named Calvin the new Alpha, he can feel the cobwebs of each wer bound to him. He wonders if Cal can feel it, too. It is as his heart is being pulled softly in different directions. Pack hierarchy, he supposes. How was Larkin able to be selfish when he felt the hunger, the sadness and the need from his members? How was he able to ignore it.

He glances upon Shirley, who is reluctantly helping a wer on her legs. Ziva rushes to her, placing her hands on the wer in Shirley's care. Even though Ziva is not bound to him, he can sense the hostility between them on Shirley's part. And he wonders what made the lovable girl he saw three years ago turn into the loyal mate of a psychopath like Larkin. Love really changes you. He can feel her grief as well. She is mourning her mate, but she is also protective of something else he can't quite guess.

Tony walks to Olivia's side. The physically impaired female wer's eyes have turned soft, submissive. The hostility and terror has washed away, leaving a clean slate between them. She continues her work, bandaging one of the male wers that lead the attack but apparently is one of Calvin's followers.

"You can stay in DC if you want to," he offers, tightening the gauze for her.

"No, the pack'll need a healer. Besides, it's where I belong, whether I wish to or not. I didn't stay because of Larkin." Her pearl eyes gleam, haunted by memories. "I would be hunted if it was found out I was lycan."

"Lycan?" Tony asks, unaware of the term.

She blushes. "Yeah, it's more appropriate than wer. More official. But it all comes down to what people accept." She snorts, then looks at the wers among them. "Human standards," she says, obviously holding a grudge. "I don't despise them, but their prejudices against our race is visible in their actions."

The wisdom in her voice baffles Tony. She seems to much older than she looks. Ancient. Yet he can feel his authority over her in his blood. He breaks the eye contacts, knowing that the fascination he has with her is mere lust.

"And the bullet truly do make it harder to morph. Transform. Transfigure – whatever. With pack members, I am covered," Olivia says while smiling vaguely. Tony suddenly understands that the ties he feels, they feel as well. Loyalty is a part of the wolf the wer race has kept.

Then Calvin's eyes land upon Olive, who is tending another, this time young wer's wounds. It doesn't take long for Tony to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Even if they aren't mates, they share the same views and the attraction is there. The Craven pack isn't a vicious band of juveniles, they're much more. They have lived together for so long they are accustomed to each other. Being together is a haven for them.

* * *

><p><em>Undisclosed location,<em>

_Hospital for Lycanthropes, somewhere in DC_

Ziva keeps her eyes on the teen wer on the ride to the hospital. She has healed the larger injuries, but the pack needs tending. Four ambulances with three in each brought them to the hospital. Gibbs rode in one with an injured wer. Calvin escorted the dead ones and Larkin with Ducky to NCIS for further arrangements. Olivia, this strange healer of theirs (though she doesn't have an ounce of magic in her), rode with the ones hurt the worst. Tony rode with two minor wers. Ziva dragged the teen wer with her and Olivia. Jen rode with two other wers, Tim with one and continuing. Nine wers alive, excluding Tony.

They are all here now, trained nurses wiping their equipment for tending to the hurt creatures. They work so fast it's growing dizzy for the real healer. Luckily her partner is there, out of the blue, to force her into one if the visitor's chairs in the waiting area. The hospital isn't one of the most popular, but it'll do. After all, they admit wers here; something few hospital do, our of fear from the lycanthropy disease, due to a particularly friendship between the dean of medicine and Dr. Mallard.

"You okay?" Tony asks, purely concerned. His arm is in a sling and he has sustained a few broken ribs, but otherwise, he's okay. There's a clarity in his eyes that wasn't there before. However, she cannot deny that when she looks into the sea-green orbs, the image of Larkin haunts her. The sparkly mischief tells her otherwise.

"Yes, I just need some sleep," Ziva ensures him. Her stomach is covered in semi-healed bruises and her palms are bandaged. Her body is not used to healing this fast, this many.

"Where's the teen wer?" she quickly says, her body tensing, her eyes flickering for confirmation that the golden-eyed wer is, in fact, not gone. Tony frowns at her, then closes his eyes in a mediative pose and opens them.

"Nearby. She's being treated," her partner informs her with a smirk. "Cool, huh?"

She nearly punches him in the side, but stops herself. He has earned the right to be slightly obnoxious. Slightly. She remembers the particular wer well.

_Her eyes are frightened with terror, the emotion dripping away in silent tears. She looks too young to be amongst these people. In her eyes is also a sternness, a defiance. A strength to come by. Her irises are the same color as Aztec gold, glinting in reflection with light. And though she is merely a child, she is attractive. Probably a prized possession more than a human being. Delicate as gold flakes, her eyes carry an alertness that shouldn't be present in such youth. They are not wise, but they are omniscient. Many have gotten themselves lost in the orbs of gold she is cursed with. _

_Her face is pale and yet she bears Oriental features. She is not from around, but Ziva has trouble placing her anywhere she'll belong. She is an abomination, even amongst the wers. Her locked gaze is spell-binding at beast and her delicacy almost makes Ziva forget that few moments ago, she was a golden-furred beast. Her wer genes are prominent and the Israeli guesses that she is full-blooded wer. Bred, born and infected as fetus. A true werewolf. _

_Her hair falls in long, messy ringlets. Her bangs are cut short with a fringe, keeping the pale hair out of the watchful, gold orbs. She's fifteen years at most but looks like she's been alone her whole life. She is malnourished and deep scars mar her wrists._

She blinks, bringing herself back. Yes, she needs sleep. But her cautious nature won't allow her.

"Hey, don't go ESP on me," Tony warns.

"I could say the same," she responds and for a moment, she enjoys the baffled expression he sends her, surprised that she knows of the term ESP. Then he grins like the immature wer he is.

"Tony?" The voice is cold like ice, yet begging. It is the mad wer, Larkin's mate – Shirley, who speaks.

"Yeah?" he says professionally, ranking himself. Gone is the attitude, the mischief, even the harshness.

"With you permission, I have decided to stay in DC. We won't be welcome in the pack any longer, I know of that," the white-blonde says solemnly, looking down. Ziva is surprised at the amount of blonds in the pack. There's a few brunettes, but Larkin was the only black-haired wer. And two African-Americans.

"'We?'" Ziva questions. She does not trust the shifting Shirley. The fact that she was the source of rivalry between Tony and Larkin tells a lot.

"Yes," Shirley says, meeting her eyes with a hostility Ziva is nearly taken aback by. By her side, a young child takes her hand, staring wide-eyed at the strangers. The girl is drowning in golden-brown curls, her eyes shy. Neither Ziva nor Tony nor Shirley has to say that this child is Larkin's legacy. And Tony's niece, whether he likes it or not.

He simply nods, not wanting to stir trouble. Forgotten but not forgiven. They both leave, disappearing in the busy crowd. Ziva doesn't know if Tony is ready to face the fact he's killed his brother, but she senses that he'll tell her in time. Perhaps he won't, but it's his choice and she honors it.

They do not get much time. The gold-eyed girl appears, her eyes flickering, but meeting Ziva's instead of Tony's. "I was told you asked for me."

Baffled, Ziva looks at Tony for anything to say. He urges her to go on. He has authority over her, but he doesn't use it. She clears her throat. "What's your name?"

"They call me Tawny," she says, speaking with an Australian drawl. Effortlessly, she wiggles her hand out of the sling and offers it to her. The healer reluctantly accepts it.

"Ziva."

* * *

><p>Abby watches the blizzard of wers from a distance. There's nothing she'd rather do than run to the recovered agents and hug them to pieces, but the scent of wolf is too strong for her to compose. She is startled when she feels a familiar presence.<p>

"You got your wer back," Rena states, her voice a mix between awe, surprise and statement. Abby never knows where she has the four-hundred-year-old luscious vampiress but she helped them on this case.

"With your help."

Rena speaks, a soft whisper of amusement. "You have blood memory. You used it on your friend's blood. Your friend claimed the Craven pack," she says, the last part mockingly.

"The wers will leave, Rena," Abby promises, for the first time truly certain of anything around the enigmatic flame-haired vampire. She is not surprised that Rena knows of the takedown, but she is used to surprises from the vampire's side. So far, Rena has not done direct harm to her.

But she likes to play mind games. Of course, she has had 400 years to perfect her tricks, and has recently chosen Abby as the newest player.

"I hope so, for the sake of everyone, Abigail, but I wouldn't be sure of it," the burlesque bar owner responds absentmindedly, gesturing to the teenage girl talking to Tony and Ziva. "It won't be long before we'll need to negotiate territories, and I expect you to be on our side," she forecasts.

A blow of wind is the only evidence of her departure. Abby finds herself shivering, but not from the cold. Four-hundred years or not, Rena is mire eccentric and more frightening than anything she's met. Her humanity is startling.

* * *

><p>"I'm merely returning the favor," Tony argues nonchalantly.<p>

"So, you are expecting us to be ambushed by wers this time?" Ziva questions as her key slips into the lock and clicks. It's nearly dawn and they're at Ziva's apartment complex. Though it is in the healer's opinion that he should be confined to a hospital bed, preferably cuffed to the rail, he has insisted upon escorting her home. He has a meeting with Calvin in the morning, and he needs to get a few hours of sleep.

"No, definitely not." The senior agent pales significantly. He doesn't like the idea of Ziva being anywhere but safely in her apartment. They need it.

As the door opens, they are indeed welcomed by a leaping furry creature that knocks Tony to the ground, Ziva having dodged the attack. With its pink tongue, it vigilantly begins to lick the new Alpha's cheeks, seemingly unaware of his rank in the hierarchy.

"What the –?"

"Apache, at ease," Ziva commands and the huge, multicolored dog. Its thick fur isn't very long, but the friendly creature obeys its mistress. The sandy-haired dog trots to Ziva's side, pouting as Tony recovers and gets to his feet. He cautiously watches the dog who is now wagging its tail at its owner, oblivious to the fact that they're more alike than it seems.

"What kinda dog is he?" Tony asks, padding the dog, his caution still evident. But he does look kinda cute, and since he isn't corrected by Ziva, he assumes it's a 'he'.

"A Canaan dog. Native to Israel," Ziva informs him. "Apache, come on."

And with that, the furry tail wags hardly into a particular bruise on Tony's tibia. He whines but follows the pair, now knowing his partner will be safe for the night.

* * *

><p><em>I hope it wasn't too OOC but I was going for something different - Lea.<em>


	9. Tales of Charon: Reminiscence

**A/N: **It's not my particular favorite, but it'll have to do. I hope that you won't be offended or anything, as I've done my best to describe voodoo. Google _Baron Samedi veve_ if you want to see it. I gave up trying. Also, go to the Wikipedia page on Canaan dogs if you're wondering what Apache looks like. He'll play a little part in this story.

Also, I honestly don't know what inspired the first piece of this chapter, but I like the subtle mystique.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own NCIS or any of its characters.

**Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon: **

**Chapter I: _Reminiscence_**

The tremendous sky is clad in endless darkness tonight, sparkled with tiny stars of oblivion, and the darkness is cover for the spirits in the air. The still winds are slightly aware of a change but drowsily follow the paths of memory, seemingly coordinated by a random pattern of puffy clouds. Lit by the city, the star-clad heaven is no longer telling of the tremendous magic happening in this hotspots of tales. There is a haze in the air, originating from one particular apartment in the capital.

Steady hands touch ancient ceremonial artifacts, placing them in a perfect circle at an altar. The breezing wind is cooperative tonight, but also expectant like a little child. The beaming moonlight allows the caster to see her work, the nefarious art she is performing in the midst of a sleeping city. The majority of the citizens of Washington, DC doesn't know the truthful stories of how far their nightmares stretch.

The flames of the candlelights flicker in the wind, licking the wrists of the caster but not harming her. Her long lashes flutter deliriously in pleasure as she begins ancient hymns and incantations. Her voice raises in song, steadily moving in the sways of the magic that slowly springs from her fingertips like vivacious glow sticks. The magic mixes with the air, entrancing the place. The rhythm of the ritual matches her heartbeat.

Anxiety-induced scratches are hard from the other side of door, but the caster ignores them, not wanting to break the magical atmosphere the ritual needs. In her mother tongue, she begins to recite a powerful protection spell she knows by heart. The glowing magic originating from her fingertips creates a whirlwind with the dubious wind, allowing her long hair to create a halo. Slowly and by heart, she begins preparing for the cleansing ritual to come, where she will need the artifacts.

It is intense, and it's breathtaking to watch, but it fills nearby hearts with terror and anxiety, something the dog can feel. It takes enormous concentration for the caster to maintain in control of the four elements: earth, wind, fire and water. And it's all broken by the abrupt, startling sound of a cell phone ringing. The magic bursts like light bulbs and everything dumps to the ground, shattering. The caster sighs, opening onyx eyes that slowly fade to a deep brown color. The howling from the other side of the door subdues.

_**(BREAK)**_

A rebellious and badly suppressed yawn cuts the silence between the three agents. Two sets of eyes glare fatigued and murderously at their companion.

"I'm sorry, guys, but I was kept awake all night," Junior agent Timothy McGee apologizes hurriedly, truly sorry that his yawn broke the sacred silence. They are standing behind the yellow do-not-cross police tape, awaiting orders.

"Probie, will you shut up?" an annoyed Agent DiNozzo snaps. He has dark bags under his eyes and keeps blinking. "You, at least, weren't in your bed when Gibbs called, were you?"

Their team leader, Gibbs, is currently trying to get the stubborn lead detective to turn this crime scene over. Jurisdictional issues aren't the worst thing they've encountered while working for Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism. It is, however, the most frequent. Waiting in the deserted street in the rain while evidence is being destroyed is the bitter outcome of being jerked awake by a cell phone in the middle of the night.

"We've been standing here, in the rain, looking like idiots, for twenty minutes!" Tony continues.

"Will you stop?" their lethal co-worker and liaison snaps, her voice chillingly poisonous. It works, because Tony shuts up and they stand there, pretending not to be bothered by the rain and the CSTs who stare at them with amusement at their inferiority. Tony manages to drift asleep whilst standing until Gibbs whistles behind the flock of crime scene technicians and the medical examiner's van.

Springing to actions, they duck behind the crime scene tape like a merry band of three, Tony not able to stop himself from flashing a CST an obnoxious smile that rivals the ones given to them moments before. Only an elbow from Ziva sharpens him.

"McGee, take pictures, David – sketch the scene. DiNozzo, victim's statements," Gibbs scowls.

"But, didn't Metro PD already take statements?" the senior agent asks, dodging a death glare from his boss.

"Rule three, DiNozzo," the grey-haired agent mere explains and disappears off to see the lead detective of Metro PD that has the case.

"What's rule number three?" Ziva asks over her shoulder, already walking towards the scene, pad and pen in her hands. Measuring has always been one of her strong suits.

"_Never believe what you're told, always double check,_" Tony recites, embracing himself for the crime scene.

Working for Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism brought constant surprise and overwhelming into their lives. The investigative part is influenced by the abnormality of their cases, but in common terms, it meant gruesome crime scenes. A vampire kill is rarely discreet; even if the vampire manages to contain itself, the blood spatter and mangled corpse aren't a pleasant sight. Zombies are even worse. None of this knowledge prepare them for the impact of this crime scene.

The smell of incense is still lingering in the air, despite the raindrops falling heavily unto the ground. Every inch of evidence is wet, even by the time the CSTs arrived to the scene. Which is where Tony comes in. With his extensive sense of smell that comes with being a lycanthrope, he is able to smell the scents that are soon to evaporate in the raindrops.

The alley is one but few in the maze of small corridors between the brick-built Georgetown. The rain is colliding with the hard asphalt, and even though Tony usually finds distinguishing scent easy, the street smells of dirt, vomit and DNA-carrying smears make case-related scents difficult to stand out.

In the alley between an office building with offices for rent and a closed-for-the-night exquisite delicatessen with banners promising delicious chicken sandwiches and other overpriced meals, the double homicide has taken placed – or at least, left the evidence. A nondescript, army-green dumpster barricades the crime scene and the crimson horror behind it, in the shadows, shielding the fault in human (or inhuman) nature. There are no surveillance cameras, the delicatessen's pointed away. Only law enforcement vehicles are parked randomly in the surrounding block. Dread is in the air, and nobody is smiling or making jokes. This is the deadly serious corner of law enforcement. The mask of professionalism is what keeps these people together.

The victims are male and female. A quick identification has revealed them as a married couple. Madison and Shane Clarke. The fate that met the Clarkes weren't merciful, everybody can see that. Tim pales, and even Tony is taken aback by the sight, having smelt the blood before seeing it. This part of Georgetown isn't popular and the ones that come here are rushing toward brighter spots of society, like night clubs in the next district or lower company in other alleys. Madison's corpse is still dressed like she'd probably dressed this morning, or perhaps this afternoon, excited about going out with her husband. Tim pictures her picking out those pearl earrings, smiling as her fingers touched the soft fabric of her lacy blouse. Did she look forward to spending the night with her handsome husband? Did she expect to be sliced open as she brushed her long, brown hair? She didn't, and now her pale body is all that's left of a 29-year-old woman from Newcastle County, Delaware. She will forever freeze in the expensive mink coat, her body tainted by the blood of the crime she witnessed.

Her finger nails are manicured, the white edge of her nails not enough to conceal chewed nails from nervous habits or working with her hands. If they're lucky, the NCIS team will find DNA under them, but in their line of work, DNA rarely plays a huge part. It's more likely there will be no physical evidence of the crime aside form the horror committed and they will have to use alternative ways to prove murder. Even then, their cases rarely go to court, the government finding other ways of preventing the accused of repeating their actions.

Both bodies have been disfigured and placed in gruesomely angled positions on the ground. They are positioned across a design of strewn white powder. Cautious, Ziva kneels down, pad in her lap and brushes the powdery substance that holds both corpses. She wants to confirm her suspicions before theorizing what this is. The grains slip between her fingers.

"Tony!" she calls out for her partner; he has the best nose. If it is what she thinks it is, combined with the incense, there is reason to be frightened. If then, this is not some harmless ritualistic gone-wrong, but human sacrifice done by a practitioner of the dark arts.

"Yeah?" he says from about fifteen feet away. He is taking witness statements from an elderly man with raspy hair and a navy-blue coat.

"Come here," Ziva instructs, and she can sense the knitted brows but she chooses to focus on the consistence of the spice. In her peripheral vision, she can see him apologizing and trotting to her side. He kneels down beside her.

"What it is?"

"I thought you might know," she explains and holds her palm up before his face. The white spice-like powder stands out on the blue latex glove that is required on all crime scenes. Tony sniffs at it and makes a grimace.

"It's strong. Smells funny, too. Like a mix of..," he trails off and then shrugs. "Cinders?" he guesses.

"We will have to bring it back to Abby. If it is what I think it is, this is not a homicide scene," Ziva explains, automatically backing away from the drawings.

"Whad'ya mean? There's two bodies and it's definitely murder," Tony argues.

"Doesn't have to be," a voice calls from behind then. Abby, their dhampir forensic scientist has swept in behind them, under the do-not-cross tape and seemingly unnoticed. They spin around and there, indeed, stands their black-haired lovable goth, dressed for something else entirely than this scene. She has made great progress during the last two months with blood. From acting lustfully upon sight to being nearly human around it. It doesn't seem to bother her, but nor does it disgust her, the grotesque image painted crimson by blood.

"I was in the neighborhood," Abby explains when she sees their identical expressions but doesn't elaborate.

"Who do you know around here?" Tony asks bluntly, but Ziva silences him.

"Can you smell it as well?" she asks, more seriously. Unlike with Tony, she allows the dhampir to make her own discoveries. That's the way Abby prefers it. Although it hasn't been proven whose sense of smell is the most detailed, Abby has knowledge of more substances than Tony. Instead of 'perhaps cinders', the dhampir may be able to identify it, or at least, narrow it down.

The long black coat touch the asphalt like a cape behind her. The dhampir is taller than most, but far from intimidating. She squeezes the grains between her fingers before closing her eyes to sniff deeply. Tony and Ziva await patiently, their curiosity peeked. When she faces then again, the white powder is smudge on her pale fingers.

"It's a blend of different aromatic spices. White pepper, horseradish, ginger. You can buy most of them in Chinatown, but one of them have to be imported. Saffron. Not your average cooking mix," she points out, then observes the specific design of the pattern.

"It is a vévé," Ziva confirms. Abby's head jerks in her direction, seemingly the only one who understands the word and its dreadful meaning.

"What's a vévé?" Tim, who has joined them soundlessly, asks curiously. Ziva's voice has taken a darker tone.

"Part of a voodoo ritual. This specific one belongs to Baron Samedi."

Abby eyes her. "And you're certain?"

Undoubtedly, Ziva nods. "I wish I was not."

"Who's this Baron?" Tony asks casually as if not understanding the true reason why even Abby has paled remarkably despite the fact she walks around pale usually. Ziva sighs and begins to explain.

"He is the voodoo loa of death. It is ambiguous, but that is what he is known for. This vévé is his."

Even though it is ten seconds at most, it is like the entire scene freezes. The raindrops fall in slow-motion as the four truly studies the pattern in which the Clarkes have been placed. The powder is smeared against the asphalt now where the rain has fallen, but the vévé is still identifiable. The mushy white powder that Abby has identified as saffron, white pepper, ginger and horseradish is placed in a pattern that originates from a cross with various additions that are symmetrical. Under the cross is a crest-like coffin with odd shapes and stars, with the Clarkes placed awkwardly in the middle. The amount of powder needed for the drawing alone would have been outstanding.

"Abby? Where were you? I've been calling your cell for the past hour," Gibbs says, the worry behind his harsh response evident, as he approaches. Abby's the favorite, the little sister among them, even though she will outlive most of them by decades, perhaps even centuries.

"I was at _Classique_, a friend's club. I went out for a couple of minutes and I heard somebody talking about a crime scene. My friend told me to go," the gothic dhampir tells them, shrugging casually. She keeps the part out where Rena also warned her not to get involved, but then gave up. Gibbs seems satisfied with the answer and turns to his agents. Ziva solemnly tells him about their equal findings.

"Voodoo?" He seems rattled by the word. Angered. Something tells them that his encounters with the darker arts haven't left good memories. They wonder where he might have dealt with it; voodoo is more common in the southern states.

"Yes. I recognize the works, Gibbs. It is definitely Baron Samedi," she says with a sudden familiarity of the word, an intimate knowledge Tony can see haunts her eyes, but he chooses to ignore it. If important, she'll tell him.

"Which means we're dealing with human sacrifice and a zombie raiser." Gibbs rolls his eyes as if saying a sarcastic 'greeaat'.

"Not necessarily. These victims were placed as a sacrifice. Sometimes this loa demands higher sacrifice but I have rarely heard of him demanding human sacrifice. Only someone who has extensive powers will be able to pull this off. The magic surrounding this place suggests so, and it is odd why it is so public and not done in a sanctuary. A practitioner would not have placed these bodies like this if they had intended to zombify them," the healer explains.

Gibbs nods, suddenly aware of how much expertise – or at least knowledge – his liaison seems to have of black voodoo. Questioning the origins of this expertise, he suppresses the urge to get her to talk more. He doesn't need the CSTs that are canvassing the scene to stop their work just because it gets interesting.

"I want all of this brought to NCIS' lab. You can follow our medical examiner," he orders. He directs himself at the four. "I want you all to go rest, but meet at seven-hundred hours tomorrow for sit-rep."

Then he all but whispers to Abby, using his casual tone:

"You okay with the blood?"

"Yeah," she admits, blushing. "I've fed tonight."

_**(BREAK)**_

The healer nearly declines when her wer partner asks her if she wants a ride home. Then she remembers that she has only slept for two hours, and lets him drive her home. The ride in his Mustang is far from awkward but she is too tired to engage in casual conversation as the landscape of DC brush by. She can't even suppress a stiff yawn.

"Zee, you need to sleep properly," Tony urges playfully, but the intention behind is sincere.

"Says the person who spends most nights either at bars or roaming the parks on four legs," Ziva remarks.

"Hey!" Tony says, semi-hurt. "Besides, you've earned it. Without you, it might've taken days to see that the scene had been part of a voodoo . You even narrowed it down."

"The corpses confirmed my theory. Human sacrifice," she says absentmindedly.

"The witness, Mr. Briggs, he saw someone fled the scene. He's meeting with a sketch artist tomorrow. Maybe we'll get a hit, case solved," Tony comforts optimistically to cheer her up. Now where he has been awake for a few hours, he is as well as he's gonna be.

"I do not think so, Tony," Ziva states, her eyes hazy. She has that soft purple glow to her body and it's more radiant now where she is pale and fatigued. Her eyelashes flutter in the battle against consciousness. Not for the first time, he wonders what his unbeatable partner does in her spare time. Not that working for Gibbs leaves a lot of time for that. He was just getting sleepy himself when Gibbs called, returning from a lunatic jog. Being a wer, he loves the outdoors more than prior to becoming one. A few months ago, everything changed. From being a lycanthrope unable to master the inner wer, he grew control in three days' time, but at a pricy cost. He has been a wer for a little over three years, but it has also added many burdens to his shoulders. He claimed the position of Alpha of the Craven pack to protect his teammates, not truly realizing that what he thought was self-defense was considered pack hierarchy. But, he already had a family, and he named a new Alpha in his place. A few wers stayed in DC and he is now their Alpha, although most of them wants to slip under the radar. His regular hunting partner (in the animal sense of the word) is a young wer named Tawny who is quite the rival when they race each other. They do, however, not hunt or harm humans. His one rule.

When they reach Ziva's apartment (which Tony has only visited a few times, but more frequently since approximately two months ago), the Israeli has drifted asleep in the passenger's seat, her fists curled up to her chin. Tony fights the urge to snap a picture of her with his camera phone, knowing that she is trained in various martial arts and has killed wers before. In this near-fetal position, she doesn't look intimidating or deadly. She's just Ziva, no additions. He is glad that she trusts him enough to expose herself like this. It suits her, even though she'll never admit it. He is fond of her, despite her misuse of the english language, abuse of idioms and terrifying demeanor. Truth is, he'll be the hell of a lot safer on her side than her opponent's.

Carefully, he steps out of the car, closes the door on his beloved Mustang and moves to pick her up. He knows that if she awakes, she'll start arguing and then she won't get any sleep for at least the next twenty minutes. He trusts himself enough to get her safely into her apartment. Fishing for her keys, he carries her in his arms in a very chauvinistic pose, her arms cradling his neck automatically. To him, she doesn't weigh enough. His wer-enhanced side allows him to bench-press a car if he wanted to.

Taking the elevator is one option he chooses and when he's at the door, he braces himself for the welcome and quickly unlocks the door, using Ziva's keys. He is amazed at the silence that meets him. The Canaan dog that his partner keeps for company silently welcomes him, not barking nor howling as he usually does, but instead wagging his tail gleefully at the sight of his Mistress and Tony. Apparently, he is not that worried about the fact that Ziva is currently asleep.

"Good, Patchwork, atta boy," he says instead of evoking his wer side. He has discovered that even though the dog treats him as a human, when he's at his closest to his wer transition, the dog can sense his superiority. He even submits, but Tony likes Apache better this way. He has read somewhere that these kinds of dogs are easy to teach, devoted to their masters but territorial with a tendency to bark. All traits he suspects that Ziva shares, too. The book had said that they are very vigilant and have a great survival instinct. Plus, Apache is a very handsome dog.

Tony awkwardly maneuvers into the apartment, closing the front door and placing the keys within reach. He knows his way around the apartment, but it's utterly dark and he fumbles with a light switch before it works, nearly blinding him. His night vision isn't bad, but he prefers light, especially when the absence of it could lead to a potentially pissed off Israeli if he drops her. He decides that following the very eager dog seems a good idea, and true enough, the sandy-furred dog leads him to Ziva's bedroom. Although the mere idea would be obvious sexual innuendo material, he respects his partner and hesitates for a moment before placing her unto the bed. He takes off her boots, deciding that Ziva would rather sleep in her clothes than have him undress her. Yet he manages to untangle the loosely wrapped jacket from her, stirring her in the process.

She mumbles something in her sleep and then opens her eyes drowsily. The chocolate-brown orbs find Tony and she immediately stiffens once she realizes she's in her bedroom, lying on her bed with her partner watching her.

"Wait, wait!" Tony exclaims, his hands up in the surrender gesture. Ziva watches him cautiously, then relaxes.

"I fell asleep in the car?"

Tony nods, relieved that he shouldn't have to explain himself. She shrugs it off, then looks at the digital clock. It reads three fifteen p.m.

Somehow, they convince each other to allow Tony to stay a little longer and end up falling asleep, Ziva on one side under the covers, Tony on the others, dressed in his jacket, above the covers. Apache has snuck into the space between their knees, obviously jealous of the attention Tony is receiving from his mistress. The three of them sleep soundly.

_**(BREAK)**_

Yeah, I imagined it'd be cooler too, but here's first part of this new adventure with the AU-NCIS. I realize the end is kinda TIVA fluffy, but it shows the nature of the trust in the partnership between Tony and Ziva. I hope you realize that they aren't romantically involved :'(


	10. Tales of Charon: Faint Lines

**A/N: **I know this has taken a while to write and post, but I wasn't really sure where "Tales of Charon" was going, so I hope you like this. It isn't longer than other chapters, but the POV pieces might be lengthier than those in the former story's chapters. I am experimenting, so please comment this writing style if you'd like. I hope it explains the characters better than in "Cries of the Wolves", which was the intention.

* I have an additional message; I went back to read "Cries of the Wolves" and I realized that Rena was both described as _"having been undead for four decades" _and being way past the age of four hundred. I don't know how to explain that one, but I am winging it, so pretend that what you've read so far is true: Rena is a 400-year-old vampire who happens to have been undead for the past 40 years. I'll hopefully come up with something that explains that. Writer mistake – sorry.

Also, explaining voodoo is hard; hell, I don't even understand most of it. So, I'm sorry if I get anything wrong. Read the wikipedia page if you're confused. I googled it and read different sites.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it?

* * *

><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<strong>

**Chapter II: Faint Lines**

The tiny drop of blood is enough; the mass spectrometer needs more, but Abby surely doesn't. Instead of going home, as Gibbs has instructed them to, she finds herself flacking back to where she came. _Classique_. The lashes of her plateau boots are knotted tightly, her tee damp by the rain and she doesn't feel tired or grossed out by the gory crime scene. With her black lace umbrella, she quickly stalks the streets until returning to the nightclub slash bar. She easily avoids the puddles that the rainy seasonal weather of DC is creating around her. With her extended hearing she is capable of counting every drop, listening as it falls from the sky and splashes, colliding with the asphalt. It is something she has grown accustomed to since hitting puberty, when her nature manifested.

Her mother is due to arrive tomorrow by train. New Orleans is a long way and it's been ages since Abby has seen her mother. She is looking forward to her visit, but she is also nervous. It's not that Kendra disapproves of Abby's job choice, Abby is just awfully afraid that she'll jock some memories or worse, disappoint her. When is why she has sought the bottle, confirming with a certain amount of dispiritedness that dhampirs cannot get drunk – and she refuses to drink tequila on a week night. She was glad that she wasn't intoxicated when they were called to the crime scene. It would have been utterly embarrassing, not that she would mind. She trusts her co-workers, even Tony, being a wer and all, and Ziva. She _did _heal Tony, so she has been taken in like a lost kitten. They are some sort of dysfunctional family, the team of Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism. It's what makes them work.

Soon she finds the fluorescent, beaming sign that reads Classique in curvy letters. Had it been anything else, it would have been cheesy, but it works for a place owned by the scariest vampire Abby knows. Anyway, it offers sanctuary and promises a decent cocktail menu. And Rena is quite the hostess once you see past the whole being dead and feeding off humans. No, _Classique _is truly enchanting, vampires or not. Abby knows for a fact that the place hasn't been be-spelled by witchcraft. Any sorts of Wiccan works gives her migraines. Oddly enough, voodoo doesn't. Voodoo doesn't call to her like blood, either. She can hardly feel it; the magical roots, surely, but it doesn't bother her.

She has spent most nights at Classique or helping Rena with her newest purchase, the café she has chosen to name _Orbit_. Why a vampire needs to serve customers during daylight is lost on Abby, though Rena has explained something about the atmosphere and popularity. Honestly, Abby doesn't wanna know, which is exactly why she has declared waitressing for the vampire. Even at _Orbit_, though she, due to a promise, checks up during the day on the human personnel. It's nearby the NCIS headquarters, and since Rena hasn't transferred her most trusted human employee, Joshua, it'll have to do.

She enters the magical scene of _Classique. _In the crowd of bodies being pressed together, she feels all of it; human emotion. It coils and toils, toying with her other senses. Rena has been teaching Abby how to control her nature better, though she prefers to call it "concealing". It is awfully hard when Rena is only awake at _Classique_, leaving little privacy. She passes though the crowd and unto a more private area, the bar to the left and soft couches with cushions to the rear. Music fills the air, bumping with the movement of the crowd. There's many tonight, and Rena looks absolutely thrilled about it. In the low-cut jeans and an aquamarine silk top, she looks ravishing but human. Once you look past that, with a closer look, you'll start to sense the abnormality. The way her face is composed, all the time, and carries a certain edge. The closest thing Abby can compare her to is Ziva. Preparedness is a quality they both share.

Rena – if she has a surname, Abby doesn't know of it – is the legal owner of both _Classique _and _Orbit_, but instead of dressing up like the clientele, she is wearing the clothes of a bartender. Simple stilettos completing the look. Her short, boyishly cut hair has grown longer and more spiky, fading from bright red to a more auburn color. It still seems strong and radiant in the dimmer lights. Normally, it would look mismatched, but there is nothing normal about Rena. She is five-eight, paler than humanly healthy, and 400 years and counting. Or so she likes to let others believe. It seems to be a running joke about Rena's original age. She looks like someone in her early thirties, someone with enough respect to run a nigh club as prestigious as _Classique_. She has been in the business for longer than Abby has been alive. Whether the police knows of the vampiric ownership or not, on paper Rena is not called Rena. Compulsion, perhaps. Abby wouldn't know how to recognize it.

"Abby!" Joshua calls from the bar. The golden-haired Michigander is a really nice person and is human as far as Abby can tell. He is charming, caring and quite the catch. Abby suspects that Rena keeps him around for more than his bar-tending skills. He is six-two and is twenty-four.

"Joshua," she exhales. She scoops over in one of the bar stools, eyeing a guy in his thirties who sends her an unnerving gaze before staggeringly dismounting the chair, tottering away.

"He's a regular," the bartender explains.

"You do have a rather pesky clientele," Abby comments, taking the rum he's handing her. Like her training, Rena has insisted that all beverages served to Abby are on the house. She has given up on protesting. It's not her fault if Rena loses her liquor license. Hell, she avoided suspicion that time about two months ago when a barmaid out of jealousy drunk that blood-spiked cocktail that had been intended for Abby. To a dhampir, it would be like drinking water, but it had a few complications that ended in Kimberly Hanson being rushed to the same hospital where their case had brought them. Kimberly was pumped and fired, or, at least, Rena had dealt with her.

"That I do agree with," a darker, salacious voice says behind her. She looks to the empty chair beside her and a dark-haired man with exotic green eyes smiles and sits down. He is slim and has a certain air around him. His green eyes are dark enough to drown in and seem bottomless, like a pit you really shouldn't go near. He is caucasian with the slight tinge of a tan. His cuffs are rolled up and the dress shirt he's wearing is burgundy color with narrow, vertical, orange stripes. He wears it well with simple black denim pants. It makes him look appealing and down to earth. He is new here. Abby isn't certain that the vine brown color of his hair truly existed. She suppresses the urge to run her hands through it, but if she knows herself, it is visible on her face.

Trying to pass for casual interest? Riight. Apparently, Joshua seems to know him. "The usual?"

"Yeah," the dark-haired Mr. Handsome says, blinking and sipping the drink before turning his full attention towards Abby. She nearly blushes under it.

"Abby, let me introduce Mr. Navarro," Joshua says unsteadily, his eyes cautious.

"Dante," the stranger supplies, offering his hand. When she shake sit, she can feel his heart beat, but also something else entirely. He has a certain aura about him, but she has never been good at reading those.

"Abby," she offers, feeling silly. Yet Dante acts like a gentleman, nodding respectfully.

"Well, Abby," Dante starts, engaging in pleasant conversation. "A refreshing night, isn't it?"

Abby knows better than to speak of an active crime scene; yet she knows the frown is visible on her face. "Certainly."

"What gruesome details do you keep from me?" he questions, sending her a rather serious glare before smiling. "Hey, if you don't feel comfortable talking about it, fine by me. But it bet it wasn't a date who stood you up?"

Intrigued, she plays the game too. "Why that?"  
>"I'd personally never let such a beautiful woman sit all by herself on such a buzzing night," Dante explains, keeping his green eyes on her instead of traveling over the crowd. She feels intruded yet embraces the attention. It helps dividing her job and her leisure time.<p>

"Well, what are you doing in town?" Abby asks. "I haven't seen you before."

Before he can respond, Rena treads into view, her pale, supernatural eyes terrifyingly fixed on Dante. Abby is glad the vampire has never stared at her like that. The expression changes before she can pinpoint it. Her rigid body goes tense and evaporates into uneasiness.

"Mr. Navarro," Rena says. Butter wouldn't have melted on her tongue. Ignoring Abby completely, Rena goes into complete defensive while trying to be pleasant. Whoever Dante is, he has an impact on Rena that is being putted to the test.

"Rena LaCour, what can I do for you?" Dante asks, his expression still pleasant but his body responding identically to Rena's. Abby feels like an audience to a tennis match.

"Abby, I believe you've met Dante Navarro," Rena says, her eyes still on the stranger. "He's new in town."

"I got that part," Abby skips in, annoyed that she is being treated as a child merely because Rena is a vampire – a mature, experienced one – and she is the dhampir. She can be just as scary. 'Can' being the operative word.

"Well, Abby, has Mr. Navarro told you what he does for a living?" Rena points out, her voice still vile, her face a mask of pure pleasantries. Confused, Abby doesn't understand this display of dominance. Rena herself is a blood-feeding supernatural being with four centuries on her rep sheet. She shouldn't be judgmental when the things she has done can't be considered in the Geneva convention. She has never seen a vampire be territorial, but this is her guess at Rena being it.

"I was just going to," Dante says casually, then faces Abby. "I'm a necromancer."

* * *

><p>As if on schedule, the Major Crime Response Team of the NCIS department is gathered next morning in their bullpen, awake and ready to sort evidence. Wearing standard issue overalls in an indiscreet red (following protocol!), they ride the elevator in silence – something rare – to the ground floor. Its back entrance serves as evidence garage. The crime scene is virtually recreated and all evidence is put where found, only bagged and tagged, the more important ones being analyzed as they arrive. A temporary work station with keyboard, monitor and a larger screen for show-and-tell have been plugged to the NCIS server. Full access required.<p>

Gibbs silently motions for Ziva to explain what exactly that lead her to believe that their double homicide was part of a voodoo ritual. The Israeli woman eyes Abby and in unison, they begin explaining the basic facts about voodoo and the particular vévé.

"I recognized it from my past. Voodoo is not bad in general, not at all, but it depends on how you use it. Taking into consideration that the bodies were found in the vévé, this is most definitely black voodoo. This particular pattern belongs to Baron Samedi, the loa.."

"What's a loa?" Tony asks immaturely, but it's a valid question.

"Kinda like a god of the voodoo culture," Abby supplies, eyeing Ziva for permission. "For worship."

"Cool," Tony comments. Gibbs lets it slide.

"What exactly does the vévé and the loa symbolize?" Tim, ever the probie, dares to ask. Gibbs and Tony do not begin to argue over his ignorance, evidently not wanting to admit their own.

"The loa needs to be summoned through a ceremony, a rite. The vévé is a religious symbol that acts like a beacon and represents the loa. Sacrifices..." Ziva swallows. "Sacrifices are placed upon them. Usually food or drink, but Baron Samedi has a history of being inventive with his demands. Depending on the ointment and powder used to draw the vévé, it can represent a lot of rituals, especially when you are dealing with Baron Samedi."

"Who is this Baron?" Gibbs asks.

"The loa of the dead. He can be ambiguous, though. Dead does not have to be badly associated."  
>"Tell that to the Clarkes," Tony adds wryly, earning him a head slap from Gibbs. He flinches unceremoniously and cuts off his remarks.<p>

"He represents a lot of things. He is also associated with sex and resurrection, even the healing touch of the near dead," Ziva explains, holding up her hand which glows faintly for a moment through the white rubber gloves before fading dimly. "In voodoo, Baron Samedi is rather fond of the fleshly desires."

Even Abby looks at her differently. Not exactly horrified, but with a certain amount of fear, respect and awe. By clearing his throat, Gibbs cuts the silence that has fallen unto the evidence garage.

"What you're saying is that Madison and Shane Clarke were sacrificed?" He sounds doubtful; Ziva envies that disbelief. But past consequences have taught her to take voodoo very seriously. Unconsciously, she reaches for the Star of David around her neck. Magic oozes off her in invisible waves. Neither team member comments it, but they do not mention the sudden heat wave.

"Whether it was intentional or not, yes, they were used as human sacrifice. The angle of the slitted throat suggest it was done much like one would slit the neck of a goat in the ceremonies I have participated in."

"Participated in?" Tony asks, eyes wide, but is cut off by Gibbs' stare. The next thing comes harder; Ziva has never been disrespectful around the dead, not does she wish to begin now, but the Clarkes were sacrificed, much like a goat. The pictures of the Clarkes' slitted throats are spread out before them. Surprisingly, the blood spatter isn't enough to fill tow bodies.

The Israeli studies the photos intensely, and the team observes her. Abby is slowly getting the idea of what she's doing, because she says it before Ziva can. "There's not enough blood."

"Ducky figured that some of it had been washed away by the blood," Gibbs explains.

"No," Ziva disagrees. "Blood cannot leave the vévé without permission from the caster or the loa."

"You think the loa _solidified_ itself," Ducky notes, having appeared out of nowhere; well, not exactly, but he has read her mind by telepathy. Although a bit intrusive, Ziva nods in agreement.

"And Baron Samedi just waltzed out of that alley?" Gibbs' negativity and disbelief are back. It's nice to have something be dependable.

"That's the only thing that would require such big sacrifices. I do not believe the caster would be able to summon Baron Samedi by accident, even if the blood happened to touch the vévé. So, yes, Baron Samedi must have been there and then left. With the caster," Ziva supplies. "And he took some of the blood with him."

"How do you know he didn't just kill the caster? From what you're saying, this Samedi sounds powerful and isn't bound to fill three wishes or anything to get his freedom," Tony points out.

Ziva sends him a secretive smile. "Use your investigative skills, Tony. There's no body."

"'Could've taken it with him," Abby argues.

Ziva shrugs. "Highly doubtful. Why kill the caster? He could just walk away."

"How long does the ceremony work?" Gibbs asks out of the blue.

"I am not certain, but a day at most. The majority of loas resident in the invisible realm of voodoo spirits, so does Baron Samedi. The chances of finding the caster with him are strong, but we have little time," Ziva answers.

"Why keep the blood?" Timothy asks from the corner. He is looking paler by the minute but has somehow detained himself from bolting the room in direction for the restrooms. Or the nearest trash can.

"I do not know," Ziva says while she shrugs, eyeing Abby for a possible answer, but not even the goth dhampir seems to know why. As if summoning the Baron hasn't been enough. "But whoever summoned him to this realm is not an amateur," the Israeli informs them, traveling her slender fingers along the lines of the photo. The white edges seems the safest.

"McGee, you got anything?" Gibbs proceeds to ask. Timothy McGee, their brightest and tech-savvy junior agent, looks dumbfounded for merely a moment, then replies.

"No, boss. Neither or the Clarkes have presented themselves to me, not since the last time."  
>Ziva raises a brow at this, not having known that their team leader had the medium sense the scene for spirits last night. Even though he looks more rested today, they have not shown themselves to him. Which is unusual in itself; their cases often lead to gruesome murders, not a peaceful deaths, more than often leading to spirits whose souls have not left this realm due to unfinished business.<p>

"DiNozzo, when is the witness due to meat up with a sketch artist?"

"Er, she'll be here by 1100 hours, boss. I'm using Katherine, just in case," Tony reveals, smiling smugly. Ziva doesn't doubt that this Katherine has fallen into Tony's bed more than once. However, she is more certain that their casual dalliances are just that: casual.

They quietly get back to their jobs, sorting evidence. The evidence garage personnel – "baggie bunnies" as Tony refers to them – hasn't clocked in yet. Ziva suspects that Gibbs has cleared the area and thus, the situation, with Jenny. If not, they'll find out.

Abby snakes her way to Ziva, corners her and thus cuts her off from the rest, still while sorting through the different pieces of evidence, most going into the 'for further analysis' pile. If it wasn't a murder investigation, Ziva would have laughed at her fascination with evidence. Her behavior is odd, but she has only been on the NCIS team for three months, not nearly enough to pin Abby down to a simple conclusion. She's not sure that years will give her any hints how to handle the gothic, lovable character. Today is no exception; she is wearing a black skirt with a lacy hemline and her trademark plateau boots to a simple black tee with a white skull that has a pink knotted bow. For anybody else, she would have looked twice, but it suits Abby well. As much as she is part vampire, Ziva could never imagine Abby actually hurting anybody.

"Does it have to be a practitioner of voodoo that did this?" she whispers, her eyes cautious. The question startles Ziva. Abby suddenly looks uncertain and regretful.

"Yes," Ziva states bluntly. "Why?"

Abby partly ignores her, lowering her voice even more so. "Could a necromancer have done this?" She gestures o the crime scene photos.

Ziva swallows; not out of dread or doubt, but hesitation and confusion. "I guess. But there aren't many necromancers in DC. Animators, a handful, but on a global plan, the necromancy is nearly extinct. It's not something that you become, it's in your bloodline."  
>"Like your healing touch," Abby supplies, a little less insecure.<p>

"Yes," Ziva assures. Before she can ask the cause of Abby's questions, the goth has disappeared. Shrugging, the Israeli continues the work, hoping that Abby will explain later. Or perhaps not at all.

* * *

><p>Tony knows it has been ages since he has seen Katherine "Kay" Monroe. They shared a night together about two years ago, but then she sorta slid out of his life. He didn't pay much attention to it, and the next week he's forgotten about her. The fond memories, so to speak, remains. The tall, fair-haired brunette is an excellent artist and a consultant who's paid by the hour. She has long legs and the palest eyes Tony has ever seen in a human. They are only a few shades from being the white surrounding them. She has always managed to capture every detail with her pencil, but as far as Tony knows, she is a hundred percent human. Or, maybe a little fairy blood in her, but who hasn't?<p>

He'd had the time to check in with the psych domain before he met up with Kay and Mr. Briggs in the conference room. Grace is a lovely woman, but like Ducky, he doesn't like people prying into his mind. He likes Jimmy, though. They had nothing to tell him about the case. They are up in their asses in fortune telling this time a year, so Tony made a quick exit. Grace didn't seem to mind.

"Katherine," he says out-of-breath as he sees the haloed woman sitting in one of the nondescript chairs that always seems to be missing when needed. Her pale eyes find his and for a moment, he shivers in delight. He does, however, manage to suppress it.

"Anthony," she greets, her smile widening. "I'm surprised you called."

"Well, you are the greatest sketch artist I know," Tony admits with a flamboyantly ass-kissing smile. He doesn't mind Kay thinking he's proper material for another evening.

"Eidetic memory will do that to you," she says, grinning. She truly does look like some sort of angel, but they're fairytale material, so how would Tony know. He was actually a bit disappointed when he joined Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism and discovered that angels didn't exist. That theory hasn't been proven wrong in the three years he has been working here. Well, hotness can blind.

"Even if it's not yours?" he points out and she shrugs casually. He's right, her eidetic memory has nothing to do with what Mr. Briggs saw. Which from the interview yesterday and the information they have uncovered since might be a god-like spirit. God, how morbid. Suddenly, Tony is confronted with his own mortality. Well, almost. Nobody says you can't flirt while doing that.

"Kay, you know what to do?"

The young ex-barista looks reproachfully at him with a "did you really just as me that" gaze, then rolls her eyes. That moment, she really looks like a stubborn teen, and god knows, he's dealt with plenty of those lately. He throws his hands up in the surrender gesture.

"It isn't the first time I have helped law enforcement, Tony. Just because my record is spotted," Kay says with a spark in her eyes that says she ain't kidding.

"Mr. Briggs will be here shortly, so prepare your instruments," Tony replies, sugarcoating the words and awaiting a fist. No, Kay isn't date material, but she sure as well doesn't joke around. The punch lands softly on his shoulder, breaking her skin.

"Ouch! You go to the gym or something?" the twenty-something asks baffled, staring at her bruising knuckles.

"I warned you," Tony responds, a mischievous smile on his face. Flirting comes naturally to him, always has. And her smile is genuine. The downside (and advantage) to being a wer is being able to scent every lie, every fib. Every untrue intention. He wishes that he had a switch to turn it off, but he has learnt to deal with it. Everybody lies.

"Well, make it up to me," Angelica says, thrusting her hips against his, her pale eyes forcing his to meet hers. An utterly charming set of feature cross her face and her voice is suddenly all suggestive. Definitely hasn't seen that coming.

They are interrupted by a junior agent that has brought Mr. Briggs up. Which, honestly, Tony is kind of glad for, because he wouldn't have known how to reply. It feels weird to wake up in your co-worker's lap and then proceed to flirt endlessly with another woman. And, no, it wasn't like your mind our of the gutter, he tells himself. No, he'd accidentally fallen asleep next to Ziva and somehow woke up in his wolf form. Safe to say it had been an awkward morning after. Ziva took it cooly, mostly because she knew that if startled, he might have changed back – naked. No, he'd nearly scooped her over in his sleep, unintentionally. A bear-sized wolf takes up much of the room in a queen-size bed. Somehow he'd never pick Ziva for a cuddler. She isn't. The surprise had been two-sided. But Apache seemed to blame him. During the night, the dog had resorted to his basket.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews :) – whatcha like, whatcha don't?<strong>


	11. Tales of Charon: A Shadow of Doubt

**A/N: **It's been ages, I know, but I have been busy with school. Exams, they suck, et cetera. Besides, this story has been on the slow side for a while and I had trouble writing the scenes to spice it up. I also found it particularly hard to write the Ziva/Jenny scene, and it didn't turn out as I'd liked, but hey, writer's guilt. Again, all voodoo terms are entirely based on my reading comprehension of the websites on voodoo. Please pardon any confusing terms and/or mistakes I've made.

I am looking for a beta if anybody knows one. To this part of the story. I have, however, planned this story out a little better than "Cries of the Wolves".

**Disclaimer: **I don't own NCIS or any of its characters.

* * *

><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<strong>

**Chapter III: A Shadow of Doubt**

After compiling a list of the items usedfor the ritual, Ziva has retracted to the spacious hallway near the harbingers' lounge, enjoying the silence for a moment. Thinking about it, it is probably a bad idea. She isn't upset by the deaths of Madison and Shane Clarke, because sadly, she has seen far worse working as a healer a few years back. Nor is she affected by the thought of waking up to Tony this morning. A small smile creeps its way to her lips. Yeah, she had enjoyed the panicked expression of sheer surprise and fear on her co-worker's face. Mildly, of course. Had the fear been genuine, she would have been worried. They have just recently developed some trust, which is much when taking into consideration their previous dislike of one another.

It is the path of voodoo, the human sacrifice that startles her. Subconsciously, she begins to rub her arms as if trying to wash away the scars. Death has been near Ziva her whole life; magic hasn't, but it is not a recent discovery. Her knowledge of voodoo comes from own participation and sacrifice. It has a price, dealing with loas. Which is why she resorted to other means.

Her messy brown hair hides her face, which is a small comfort. Back against the wall, she knows better than to think she is on her own. Ectoplasm is just down the hall and she is almost certain that the woman by the photocopier is eagerly listening, as if trying to read her thoughts. Luckily, Ducky is the only telepath in the office. And the policy of keeping the director in the loop of one's powers is as enforced as the law. Technically, Ziva doesn't break the policy. The first month she was here, nobody except Jenny knew about her powers as a healer. It wasn't relevant until she and Tony were attacked by wers. She is thankful for her immunity to the lycanthropic disease. Not that she dislikes wers. Tony is one of the best partners she's had exactly because he's a wer.

"Ziva?" a soft feminine voice says. The Israeli immediately tenses, but exhales once she recognizes Jenny, the current CEO and director of NCIS. Also a good friend of hers, her only one when she arrived in America three months ago.

"Jenny." It seems redundant, but Ziva needs to confirm for herself that it is truly Jenny. Her father has taught her to be observant and it has given her the preparedness she is known for. It makes distrust come naturally, which isn't necessarily a bad thing in a world where shapeshifters aren't unusual.

"You look tired," her friend notices and she hasn't taken the role of protector or supervisor, but simply a friend to another. She leans against the wall, standing next to Ziva but not necessarily meeting her eyes. Patiently, she observes Ziva in an unintrusive way. That is what Ziva likes about Jen; once you have her trust, you have to do really bad to lose it. She is patient when it comes to friends, but Ziva cannot account for her being patient on the job. She can handle herself in a gunfight and a knife-fight despite her size. She was the first sylph Ziva ever met.

"It's nothing," Ziva insists.

"You have rarely ever reacted this way, Ziva," Jenny points out, then rephrases, subtly changing the subject. "I'm not a part of the team. Hell, I am just some friend that happens to owe her life to you."

Ziva smiles ghostly as she remembers Cairo; back when she didn't have as much experience with the supernatural. It has been two years, but she solemnly remembers the rookie she thought of Jen when they arrived on a joined task in Egypt. Jenny had been honest in the end, admitting she didn't know as much about supernaturals but only barely. And it was exactly what had nearly cost her her life; her own stubbornness, her refusal to admit her own lack of knowledge. When Ziva saved her, it had been the day she'd realized that perhaps she wasn't that good at overestimating her enemies. Two years had passed before they'd seen each other again. What Ziva hadn't known at the time of the joined task was that Jenny was CEO of an agency that dealt with exactly what Ziva had silently accused Jenny of being uninformed of.

Forgiveness goes both ways. "I am worried about this case, Jen," she admits, the slightest hint of her mother tongue falling through.

"Why?" her boss asks, not in disbelief but in mutual, friendly curiosity. Some days Ziva suspects the redhead of trying to pay her debt back. Ziva doesn't care about favors from Jen; giving her a job away from Mossad is all she needs. It is the favors from her people all over the world that matters. Tony would pale at the knowledge of how many people that owe her favors and exactly how she obtained these favors.

"Trust," Ziva replies ambiguously.

"You do not trust your co-workers," Jenny says and it is partly a question and a statement. For as long as she has known Jen, she has always admired her one ability in confusing the opponent with her ways with words. Ziva suspects that even Gibbs might fall in that trap someday. Perhaps that's what makes a good political front for NCIS. After all, somebody needs to cooperate with the Secretary and Gibbs surely isn't suited for the job.

"No," Ziva says without looking up. "I do not trust myself around the aspects of voodoo," she elaborates and bolts from Jenny, leaving the red-haired director puzzled, but aware that she will keep her secret.

* * *

><p>Howling at the moon is one thing; intentionally coming to a night club known for its vampiric clientele is another. And if there's one thing Tawny knows for sure, it's that she shouldn't have come – and she wouldn't – if Abby hadn't encouraged her to go. She knows that the vampires despise her kind like the everlasting feud between dogs and cats. And she wouldn't have come here if Tony hadn't canceled for the second night in a row. Even amongst the wer pack of DC, she is extraordinary. She is as well as unaligned when it comes to the territory, but she knows that she'll follow Tony, so maybe not that unaligned. He is a great running partner.<p>

Classique – the bar and night club allegedly owned by a vampire – is, at first glance, not that impressive. Then, slowly, she feels the lure spun from fairy blood and suddenly finds herself past the entrance. She can break the trancelike lure from herself easily once she recognizes it. The fairy magic tastes like powdered sugar in her mouth, and she is withstanding the lure because of her wer genetics. It is eleven p.m., not that late, and early for a wer to be out. Usually, she is out running at this time, covering the more deserted green spots of DC; sadly, her partner canceled, claiming he had to work late. It's not the first time he's done that in the time they've been running together. But it's nice, because it feels safe when somebody has your back – especially when that someone is tailed too.

Besides, Tony is one of the only ones she knows in DC, and trusts. His partner, Ziva, perhaps. She is kind but she smells inhuman and has a stronger aura, frayed at the edges. The way she fights is what made Tawny acknowledge her as a fighter alongside wers like her and Tony. Tawny hasn't seen much of her recently, but that's why she is here at Classique, to socialize, though also maintaining a cover. She is a orphaned teen in the capital of the United States and she _definitely _doesn't belong in the foster care system. She is not exactly house-trained.

_Classique_, enchanting and suffocating with its stench of vampires. She can already, before having patrolled the place, sense the presence of seven vampires or more. However, she did not come to fight; at least, not only. The exotic place is recommendable if one doesn't know of the backstage exploits of the vampiric species. Despite pop culture, the wer was originally protectors of the human race. Protectors against the vampires. It all depends on how you interpret it. Tawny has chosen to embrace that role within herself. She does not think that all wers are monsters. Larkin was, on some level, no doubt about that. Ever since Tony won the title of alpha of the Craven pack, she has found herself doubting her former principles. She only joined the Craven pack out of the sense of belonging she felt with them. Now where she knows that Tony's reasons was the same, she has more than once wondered if she could've done the same. Rebelled against him. Probably not, because Larkin's view of her were shared within the pack. She was some special prize, a possession. She got to keep to herself most of the time, never really fitting in.

Tawny wanders about in the club, her brows knitting over the thought that they let her in. She looks fifteen, not even close to the age of 21. Wers don't have the gift of compulsion like vampires but humans with no drops of supernatural blood in them are able to be deceived by the strong wer essence. Tawny has never putted it to the test before, and it is a mere coincidence that the doorman let her through. Obviously he is one of the human employees. Tawny doesn't know enough to tell. Hell, she doesn't even have neighbors these day and it ability to tell if anyone's supernatural has ebbed out. It is growing back, though.

"Hi," someone says behind her. Of course, she has sensed his coming, but she is still surprised when she spins around and sees a boyishly handsome being approximately her age, maybe a few years older. She has never been able to tell human ages, having grown up as a wer. It startles her how many minors they allow through the doors. She hasn't been served alcohol yet – and she won't complain if she does – but their policies are obviously a little dense. Anyway, the boy standing before her is slender and lean, but tall. His hair gleams bluely in the dim lights and his surreally dark orbs are to get lost in next to the pale skin that marks his strong jaw and otherwise soft features. Sniffing him subtly, she surprised confirms that he is human.

"Hi," Tawny croaks, looking unsure whether or not he's actually talking to her. He smiles a smile that doesn't match his combat built body. She could sense his hesitant nature.

"I'm Nate," he introduces himself, rubbing the back of his scalp awkwardly. He is cute, too tall to be considered pretty but has the set jaw that makes him man in an awkward period of time. Thinking quickly, Tawny realizes that she has no identity; no name to give to Nate, and she feels bad about it.

"Trish," she replies. She has never had to lie in her life, and it surprises her that she does it so well. Or maybe Nate is just willing to believe.

"You come here a lot?" Nate seems genuinely nice ,and it has been a long time since Tawny has met someone without pretenses or hidden intentions. He is just what he seems: casual. Though she is still suspicious. The air is laced with supernatural energy. Instead of the boost she usually feels by now when running with Tony, she is being drained, her aura trying to fight off the beings around her.

"No, first-timer," she replies, contemplating whether or not o tell the god-to-honest truth. "How about you?"

"I'm new to town, but I've been here a couple of times," Nate admits, doing something that's probably the closest thing he can do to blushing. Tawny smiles, and in return, so does Nate. A hesitant, heartedly smile.

"I've never seen anybody with your kind of eyes," Nate says. "No offense."

"None taken," she responds with a casual smile. Is she actually flirting? "I get that a lot. Genetics, y'know."  
>"Yeah," Nate smiles, watching her with his own orbs of darkness. She can see her own reflection in them yet she feels like she is drowning in them.<p>

"Nathaniel!" A man behind them clears his throat. Tawny finds herself straightening her spine in an attempt to look not-so like she's hanging across the bar, fascinated by the exoticness of Nate's onyx eyes. They're really the darkest brown she's ever seen. It fascinates her when her usual company has consisted of yellow- or pale-eyed wers the last year or so.

The man is not looking pleased but not exactly displeased either. He bears a scent of something not belonging. As he comes closer, she identifies the stench immediately. The reek of death. She physically steps back, actually snarling at him. Green orbs observe her closely, then the lips pull together in a smug smile.

"A wer, how exotic," the man says, then acknowledges Nate. "Nathaniel." The way his tongue rolls over the words is both thrilling and makes every hair on her body stand up.

"I'd say so myself," Tawny snarls, her hands tense as if expecting claws to pop out any second.

He laughs. It's a horrible sound, the power behind so frightening. He looks pleasant, but his powers are unnerving. "A testy one. If I weren't a necromancer, I might be concerned." Then he focuses, his voice not-so heartedly and so still Tawny only hears him because of her wer senses. "But my occupation and skills don't involve you, _wer_."

Freezing, Tawny can only breathe when the necromancer has leant back, allowing Nathaniel to fade into the background. Another woman has appeared beside the powerful necromancer, somebody as pale as only the undead can be. Due to her weakened state, she holds herself together, allowing the vampiress to enter her personal space. Tawny bares her teeth so her canines are exposed to Rena.

"Dante, tease somebody else, and bring Nathaniel with you," the vampiress suggests and after a little hesitation, they both go.

"See you, Trish."  
>"You too, Nate," Tawny responds absentmindedly, her focus entirely on the club owner whose power is flowing from her. However, all Tawny can feel is the inner blood feud rising in her like rage.<p>

"So, you're the new wer in DC," Rena says, taking in the vision of the fifteen-year-old's body. It isn't much, but Tawny does her best to look defiant. She can feel her nails dig into the bar. Rena doesn't seem to mind, but she tucks her smile into place.

"So powerful, yet so young," the club owner snarls, containing the rage she is, too, experiencing. Then she lifts her gaze off Tawny and calls out behind her: "Ciara!"

"Who's Ciara?" Tawny asks, bitting her lip. She can feel the inner wer awakening, rearranging her bone structure. It feels as if somebody is pressing a weight unto her chest.

A wer – of that she is obvious – steps in, more relaxed in Rena's presence but probably also benign to the vampire. Her hair as black as the first impression of Nate's eyes. It fans out behind her, seemingly cut straight but reaching the lumbar area. Her almond-shared eyes are a rich brown, eternally devious. Tawny is unsure which position she holds in her pack, but it's undoubtedly high.

The strange wer raises a brow in condescension at her mere presence, obviously having expected something more impressive, even though she seems curious about her golden eyes.

Rena speaks first. Breaking the ice, Tawny supposes. "Ciara, this is a member of the DC pack. Tawny," Rena begins, then tastes the name as if ingesting it before continuing. Tawny has no idea where she has gotten her name. ".. this is Ciara, wer of the Kashin pack in Russia. She is here to talk to your alpha."

Somehow this information, coming from Rena, doesn't make Tawny the tiniest bit of comfortable.

* * *

><p>It feels surreal and a little ridiculous to track down every voodooist in the nearby area that'd be able to pull off the ritual. The reason why they don't extend the search to the tri-state area is because the practitioner had to be close to his or her usual <em>hounfor<em> – safe haven. It had taken Ziva awhile to explain, but they all understand that it is the sanctuary for the practitioner. They have split into two teams – Ziva and Tony, and Tim goes with Gibbs. Halfway through their list, Ziva already feels tired. She can read auras if she concentrates, and it is giving her light headaches – not that she'll admit it to Tony. The tingling feeling she is getting from the team confirms the rising suspicion that they count on her knowledge of voodoo on this case. Ziva somehow doubts that her past ventures with voodoo will do anything to help the Clarkes. They're dead, permanently, now that NCIS have their bodies.

"Half-way our list," Tony muses with a soft whistle. "Who knew there were this many _registered _voodooists around this place?"

"_Registered _isn't a term I would use, Tony, we got the list from a source I know," Ziva says, rolling her eyes.

"Well, Zee-vah, isn't it as good as the real deal?" Tony asks, flashing that 1000-watt smile he's known for. Even Ziva doubts if a light bulb wouldn't light up. Knowing Tony, he'd probably use that information to be highly obnoxious so she doesn't tell him. Clever move.

She shrugs casually, not truly caring. If it were to go to court, it'd go under discrimination of religion but who they're looking for probably won't sue them, knowing that the human sacrifice will convince any jury to push the verdict towards guilty. What unnerves her – fore she is not scared – is the fact that when one deals in black magic, it is never safe to assume anything.

Ziva heads for the car door, but Tony sweeps in, giving her a piteous expression that says please don't drive, though it is quickly replaced by one of his smooth smiles that's supposed to sweep woman off their feet. Ziva doesn't find it half as attractive as annoying.

"I'll drive," her wer partner offers, breaking off her imposing glare.

"And it was not that hard, Tony. We just needed to cross-reference the items used and the list of voodooists given. _Voila, c'était très simple,_" Ziva explains once they're in the car. They have tracked down twelve of the names on the list, one of whom had died. Ziva is a bit annoyed by the fact that her source hadn't known that, which makes her wonder what else he is misinformed about. Another had left the country on a pilgrimage-like travel to his New Orleanian roots six months ago. He hadn't returned from Crescent City. They'd been to eight others who had all denied any knowledge of such rituals. One actually beginning to shiver. Despite most reputations, even black magic seemed to have limitations, human sacrifice being one of them.

"What's the next name?" Tony asks, keeping his eyes casually on the road.

"It just says 'Ebony', no last name," Ziva supplies.

"Does it have an address?"

The Israeli looks at him like he's limiting her. The I-can't-believe-you-are-foolish-enough-to-even-ask glare that is just as persistent as it's long to write. He holds one hand up in a surprisingly well-made "don't shoot me" pose.

"Of course. Says she usually hangs out at this club backroom," she informs him. Darrel's 'neat' writing is quite evident of the fact he has nerve damage in his hands. Well, right hand, which happens to be his dominant one. And he has a tendency to fear her being out of the loop.

"We're going clubbing! – Ouch!"

"You earned it," Ziva flatly defends.

"I'm driving!" the womanizer protests.

"And?"

They leave it hanging there, somehow.

* * *

><p>"We're done with our list, everyone checked out. We're coming to you," Gibbs says through the phone. Hanging up, as usual, before anyone can reply. Tony knew that starting off by telling him where they were seemed like a bad thing to do.<p>

He groans, then shuts the phone close, following Ziva. They're entering the day-close club named something he cannot pronounce. Ziva might, with her extensive linguistic skills. It's empty during the day hours, dust magically appearing in the dreadful stale air around them. Tony wonders if they clean before opening. The dim mood isn't entirely human. He can sense _something _in the air. Whether voodoo is magic or not is to be discussed, but the black magic is like a wave of despair and nausea being blown in his direction. At the same time it's also alluring in its sweetness.

He snaps out of it when he sees Ziva tense; as a healer, she has very good instincts. Being bitten changed his life but it also granted him skills to become an excellent tracker. His sense of smell is rivaled by Abby, and he is certain that she only bettered him because of her knowledge of the smell. The fact that he sees every dark corner of the club as if it was a sunlit piece of forest is both unnerving and comforting simultaneously. He is also able to pick up on the way her body stiffens as she reads the atmosphere.

"Ebony?" she bellows, breaking the silence. Tony can feel two heartbeats in the distance, one closer than the other two. They are regular, all-human. Or, at least, humanoid with common heartbeat patterns.

"You seek Madam Ebony?" a tall African-American man asks. He is wearing a polo shirt and knee-length khaki shorts. The white in his eyes is too bright against his dark skin. He has an accent, as if English isn't his first language. At first glance, Tony thinks he looks devoted.

He flashes his NCIS badge while Ziva flashes her Mossad credentials. "I'm Agent DiNozzo, this is officer David. We're here to talk to .. Madam Ebony. Who're you?"

"Duncan," he reluctantly reveals. He looks like he's fresh out of college but he has weary, distrusting eyes that flicker from Tony to Ziva, trying to determine who's dominant. Tony smiles vaguely at this, understanding the internal discussion. "Ebony is my sponsor," Duncan adds, obviously choosing his words carefully, still undecided about who to speak to.

Ziva cuts Tony off before he can make an AA reference. It is obviously not in that way. Tony's surprised that he hasn't run already. "Is she the _houngan _training you?"

Tony and Duncan look equally confused. Tony, however, learns that while his own is of ignorance, Duncan's is of surprise. "You know voodoo?"

Ziva nods. "We're here to talk to Madam Ebony about that. Merely some questions, Duncan."

Her voice is soft, like she is speaking to a child, but it's enough to convince Duncan of her benign intentions. Tony feels a little sorry for the young lad, but reminds himself that he's here voluntarily – which makes him flash back to his early memories of the Craven pack. He shudders; fortunately, Ziva is following Duncan into the backroom. There's a strong smell of incense in the air.

A woman, also African-American, is sitting by a rectangular table in the middle of the room. She has something in her lap but appears like a non-threat. That is, until the hazy orbs focus on them, sending a bitter expression towards them. Tony nearly stumbles back, but maintains his composition. He's never felt anything that powerful before. At least, not in a fifty-something woman with wrinkled hands. She doesn't look friendly like a grandmother, but harsh and calculative. The word vice springs to mind, but Tony lectures himself on being prejudiced. She's probably a nice old lady.

Her hair has probably been black once, fitting the chocolate-colored skin, but now it is becoming gray. It only makes her look more intimidating. Like a matriarch. Tony reminds himself that he's an alpha wolf, not some afraid human. Ebony slowly rises, cradling the something in her lap and greeting them, stopping a meter from them. Her aura is suffocating, powerful. It doesn't fit the picture of an aging bird. She looks fragile but she definitely possesses some power. Her eyes meet Ziva, barely noticing Duncan and giving Tony a glance.

"I felt you come, child," Ebony says cryptically with a raspy voice. She doesn't offer her hand nor does Ziva. Rude, but Tony can sense another exchange between their eyes. He is baffled as to why Ebony has chosen Ziva; sure, she is a healer and possesses knowledge of voodoo, but he is a powerful alpha, which should earn him something else. For now, he watches the scene play out in front of him. He doesn't doubt that Ebony felt Ziva come.

"You are a _bokor_," Ziva states, as if she reads aloud from a page in a book.

"You're good," Ebony chuckles, cackles. "But even Duncan could tell that. Is there something wrong with being a _houngan _and a _bokor _at the same time?"

It is obviously a rhetorical question, but then Ebony's eyes fall unto Tony who has recognized the word from before. He can tell that she is amused and aware of his ignorance. Which she tells him. "Oh, and you bring a newcomer to the voudoun arts here. Well, wouldn't you explain to him, those phrases."

Ziva doesn't turn around, but marks her words to Tony. Her alert eyes are watching the old lady as if her life depended on it. Even without his wer talents, he would be able to sense the tension that has settled like thick dust in the room. It's suddenly very chill and yet hot – and not in a good way. "A _houngan _is a voodoo priest or priestess that has been initiated into the arts. A _bokor _is a sorcerer who performs spiritual works for clients in exchange for gifts or money. They will perform many rituals involving black magic and will-control that most other initiated voodoo practitioners will not."

"Like the scene?" Tony asks.

She shrugs stiffly. Out of the blue, Ebony steps forward, smiling not entirely cruel but not trustworthy either. She hands Ziva something, a necklace of some kind.

"A _collier_?" Ziva whispers in disbelief, looking horrified and in awe somehow. Tony can sense that it has changed, the atmosphere. It is now Ebony who's playing the game. Before he can ask what a _collier _is, Ziva has stuffed in in her pocket. At first, this confuses Tony but then he realizes the necklace might can be used against her. It has an essence of spiritwork. Ziva just thought quicker than him.

"You have such strength, _ma fille_, you just don't embrace it," Ebony cackles.

"Stop the games," Tony interrupts. "We're here to ask where you were two nights ago between the hours between midnight and two a.m."

Ebony glares as him, both outraged and if he's barely worthy of a glance. Yet she composes herself. "Duncan, you have brought such gifts," she tells her flunkie, who is hiding by the door. He doesn't respond.

And Tony wouldn't either.

* * *

><p><strong>A whole lot of wers feeling insecure here, eh? Review and let me know who you liked the best in this chapter!<strong>


	12. Tales of Charon: Ripped

**A/N: Finally! Sorry. 'Nough said. Anyway, I am looking for someone who might do some artwork for a website I am creating, an encyclopedia for ALBEIT ABNORMAL. No requirements, just for it to be fitted into the text. **

**Storywise, now where Ziva is in no position to interact with the team, this story will progress quicker.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it.

* * *

><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal – Tales of Charon<strong>

**Chapter IV: Ripped**

Ziva can sense the invisible waves of power oozing off the voodoo priestess. When they arrived to the sealed-off club, she felt _something_ but the voodooist was better to conceal her true power than she'd assumed. Most of the people on the list of voodooists from her source, Mikhail, did their best to appear powerful like peacocks. Expose their intimate knowledge of the loas and mastering the rituals. Ziva would not have been so boasting herself as she has been taught that the silent snake is often the most dangerous. Ebony is clever – that she will give her.

Giving her her _collier _proves how much Ebony wants her to waver, to unravel her. The power of the token is sudden and stings like a shallow cut to the face. But she refuses to let her fingertips travel over her cheek for blood, not willing to give Ebony that satisfaction. In her peripheral vision, she can see how pale Tony looks but also sees the gleam of danger and something else entirely in his eyes. Wers are not magical or held together by some ancient wisdom. She has never been in the presence of a wer when dealing with voodoo. She is unaware if he senses the blows and waves of cosmic arts she feels like jerks in her abdomen. Her aura seeks the magic but she doesn't allow it. And it isn't exactly her aura that is craving for the longing touch of black magic.

Power demands sacrifice, and considering the power that she is currently experiencing in a nausea-like weakening, Ziva is writing Ebony on the list of the voodooists she thinks are capable of performing human sacrifice. But she won't have any evidence of the power that's traveling her skin, reaching briefly for her aura. If she lets it, it will be like the caress of a lover, but then she will fall under the trap; admitting that she is below Ebony. She swallows and pressed her fingernails into her palms before spreading them wide, freeing the web of her own magic. The healing touch can be used as a power source, and that's what she's doing. Showing to the voodoo priestess that she is not alone in being intimate with the voodoo arts.

Ebony physically stumbles back, awe written in the deep lines of her wise face. It is a battle of wills, and Ziva has declared her refusal to bow before the powerful priestess. Then she smiles wickedly, a notion that Ziva doesn't like. From the growl that has escaped Tony's throat, he doesn't either.

"Oh, _enfante_," she says grandmotherly. It unnerves Ziva; the priestess has been doing things that enable her to switch between the kind, old woman she wants people to see and a lesser being with dreadful powers and groundless morals.

"I'm not a child," Ziva denies, stepping forwards to show her strength. Tony might be aware of the body language of the wolf, but as Ziva lets Ebony sense her power, she is satisfied to see the slightest of cringes from the old woman. Her eyes tell how she is tired of this game.

"In most eyes, you are," Ebony points out, then flickers her eyes to Duncan and Tony. Ziva is counting on the fact that Tony isn't used to being ignored, or to being left out. Stretching her bony hand, she switches language to a confusing mix of French and Haitian-Creole. It is not her mind, but her borrowed essence that allows Ziva to recognize and translate the words. "_I can sense your powers. They lick me, embrace me. And yet you do not. Restraint is foolish around me, child,_" Ebony mocks.

"Ziva..," Tony warns behind her, his insecurity showing.

Her hand go to her hip where her standard-issue SIG Sauer rests, its silver bullets highly expensive but worth the price when it comes to vampires and wers and some of the more colorful ends of imagination. Ebony may be powerful, but she is only human. And humans can be hurt by bullets.

The silent threat – some might say instinct – works on Ebony. She mutes her chuckle and her dark orbs gleam with danger, but she quiets.

"What threat do I pose, _agents_?" she asks mockingly, for the first time referring to the both of them; as she has made the mistake of focussing on Ziva's unrestful aura, she seems to have forgotten that wers are dangerous, if she can sense it at all. "An old, defenseless woman?"

"Just answer the question, Mrs..?"

"Ebony," the priestess replies defiantly. "And I was out with a friend on one of those rare occasions," she elaborates, answering Tony's question with as much politeness she can muster.

"Where'd you go?" Tony asks, trying to keep himself casual but obviously not trusting this woman. Ziva has a perceptive partner.

"It doesn't concern you," Ebony snaps, being simultaneously annoyed and pleasant.

"Actually it does," Ziva informs her. "And where can we find this friend of yours? Merely for questioning," she assures the priestess.

Ebony smiles. "He went home, I'm afraid." Suddenly the conversation has turned ambiguous once again.

"How can we contact him, Ebony?" Ziva says, playing along. "Is there a phone number we can call?" She is almost certain that the 'friend' she is referring to is the incarnation of Baron Samedi, revived at the ceremony. By using the Clarkes' blood.

The dark orbs intertwine with Ziva's, catching them unwillingly. "No, but you'd know how."

Ziva admits silently to herself, she knows the way to summon the loa. She has never asked for something that required the sacrifice of human life, the uttermost costly price. What could Ebony ask for that kind of price? To revive an old lover, perhaps? Ebony seems quite capable of being vengeful. Maybe she as simply asked for more power. Greed is a powerful motive, even outside the world of supernaturalism. Revenge can be just as motivating. Somehow Ziva cannot place Ebony in those categories. She is, however, sure that whatever Ebony asked for that demanded human sacrifice was personal, not for a client, or she has seriously underestimated the black woman.

Duncan stands solemn yet nervous in the corner, surveying even though he does it badly, and insecurely. He is smart enough to sense the power-play but not enough to choose a side.

"She asked you," Tony points out, imposing as ever. He remains calm but his eyes flash yellowish – or is it something she imagines – before fading into his own sea-green orbs. He has learnt restraint ever since his unbelievable change.

Ebony looks surprised. "And I answered."

"Yes, she did, Tony. But would you please clarify, Ebony?" Ziva says, cutting Tony's response off.

The stunned expression upon Ebony's face does not last long. Retaliation is such a petty move. The _collier _feels warm in Ziva's pocket, like it's glistening. Ebony's head jerk backwards and as if on cue, she begins a chant of quickened words in Creole.

Ziva finds herself unable to shake the feeling of numbness off her. She knows what's coming, and that it's not gonna be pretty. Duncan has leapt forward, grabbing Tony from behind, preventing him from disturbing the priestess' chant. For a abrupt moment, Ziva's dark eyes go wide, invisible chains tighten around her body, like the wind is betraying her, and she chokes on mere air. Then, magically, air reaches her lungs even if she is unable to think, to breathe or to do anything but stare in blind horror at Ebony. Like she is forced to look at the power ebbing off the priestess like unseen mystical fog seeking skin.

Behind her, she can vaguely hear Tony fight Duncan's attempt at holding him back. Unlike Ebony, he has not found an equal power. Neither Duncan nor Ebony seemed to know that Ziva's partner is a wer, something that might have played into their favor if Ziva hadn't been frozen in place. Now there only seems to be Ziva and Ebony in the entire world. Ziva tries to break the fascination that has somehow manifested in her mind, forcefully pushing it over the edge, finding herself in the maze of Ebony's creation. Ziva's eyes widen. The priestess still possesses _the power_. _The power _given to her by Baron Samedi. Jaded but headstrong, Ziva overcomes the chant only to be mentally blown off her feet by the view of Ebony. Like herself, her eyes have turned onyx black, her aura outstanding. Reaching for her gun isn't an option anymore, and instinctually, she reaches for her magic instead, never hesitating even if Tony is right there. Reason and comprehension are not functioning anymore, so Ziva feels the world explode around her in the magics she knows by heart.

Body tense and eyes dark, the Israeli turns her focus toward Ebony, the same magic cutting her off from the real world. She shudders beneath the ravenous gaze she is receiving from the powerful voodooist. It is nearly murderous yet terrifyingly calm. Casually annoyed, but then challenged.

Then a shot rings out and everything she sees through onyx orbs goes black.

* * *

><p>When she falls, she falls like a marionette with strings cut off. Momentarily, Jethro fears that the bullet has ripped her torso apart instead of its original target, but then he glances at the black woman who coincidentally fell down the same instant Ziva went down. Everything afterwards happens too slow, like in an old movie. Tony breaks away from a hold by a scared black man, his eyes the one of a wer, concern breaking the rage. It is one of the few time since he took over the Craven pack position as Alpha that he has lost control. And it should worry Jethro, but he trusts his senior field agent. And right now he has other things to worry about.<p>

With Ziva down, the atmosphere, the wildness, has too faded. Like a broken spell, the backroom is now plain, the magical standoff evaporated. Tony rushes to Ziva's side, his eyes as yellow as in wolf form, a blend of true sale-yellow and the clear blue of a Siberian husky. Jethro knows, thanks to his extensive knowledge of wers and hunting them, that the shade is off. Normally his eyes are the same sea-green as in his human form, but now the fact that his partner is down has seemed to intensified his strength and inhuman nature.

DiNozzo's eyes travel Ziva's chest, looking for a pool of blood, but there is none. The only gun fired here is from Jethro's SIG Sauer and the bullet is enlodged in the african american woman. She is not moving and with less rushing than his senior agent, Jethro moves to her side, checking her neck. Her breath is ragged and it is a clean shot to the chest.

"You...," she says with wide-open eyes, the life obviously ebbing out of her. "..you .. cannot win.. She is.. b-bound.. t-to … me!"

"How?" Jethro asks harshly. Suddenly images explode in his head, sent by the dying voodooist. And then everything stands clear. He, too, opens his eyes widely.

Tony has Ziva in his arms, his super strength allowing him to carry her as if her weight is that of a rag doll. His hold is careful, and his expression an arcane mix of worried and murderous. "There's no blood, boss. It's _her _fault!"

Jethro actually has to both physically and through his powers of augmentation weaken Tony and keep him from figuratively (at least he hopes) tearing Ebony's throat out. His voice turns harsh, commanding and he flashes back to the marine corps.

"DiNozzo!" he repeats, and only after three times of shouting his senior agent's name, there is a reaction. The yellowish sea-green orbs look at him, confused and asking 'why?'

"She has bound herself to Ziva. I don't know why, but if she dies, Ziva does, too."

It downs on Tony and as if surrendering to the effects of augmentation, he weakens. He steps back, horrified, and then gently puts Ziva down. She looks as pale as he has ever seen her, and though no blood is evident – he is certain of DiNozzo's sense of smell – she has fainted from blood loss.

Jethro lays pressure on Ebony's wounds, his mind still recovering from the impact of her transfer of memories while Tony calls 911 and wait for the paramedics.

Tony offers to put pressure on the wound, and Jethro hesitates, then remembers that Tony is well aware that Ebony's death equals Ziva's as well. He moves over, knowing that the extra strength Tony's inner wer allows him to be more fit for the task.

"Why isn't she healing?" Tony asks over the shoulder. It takes Jethro a few seconds to realize he is talking about Ziva and her regenerative abilities.

Usually, Ziva is able to heal both suspects, victims and agents as long as their hearts haven't stopped. Once they have, even if given CPR they're a tricky business for the Israeli healer. Why, Jethro isn't sure, but he has appreciated Ziva for what she brings to the team, ability and mind. She has healed far worse injuries on herself than a bullet wound. She rarely needs tending, but Jethro pretends he is not aware of the toll healing takes on her, or the fact that Tony often helps her afterwards. He stretches his mind to the core of his ability, the part of his mind where the ability to increase or weaken others' powers lie. He touches it, and for some reason it is equally difficult to weaken Tony's beast and increase Ziva's power and strength. This power ebbs out, into Ziva, and Ebony by default.

Jethro has never been able to do this to himself, only others, but it never weakens him. It tires him, but he feels people strengthen. Today, he doesn't feel Ziva blossom. He feels Ebony pull him into her for survival, and it partially heals her wounds – either due to her own magic or Ziva's present abilities. For some reason, Ziva's mind and power and body reject, not him, but her own abilities.

To this, the team leader is fearful.

* * *

><p>She is pale, that girl they bring in. Marlowe watches as a herd of hospital personnel storm through the doors, his coworkers doing everything possible in the frantic mess to do their jobs, to save the patient. She is grimly pale, even though her hair reveals her exotic descent. The EMTs inform the ER doctor in charge of the condition. A very solemn yet worried guy follows, frantic himself, dressed in a federal-issue jacket with "NCIS" written across. Marlowe is not sure what it means, but the man is quickly followed by a young woman with black hair in pigtails and so pale skin he's first concerned.<p>

_Later, at the same hospital:_

Air bubbles upwards in the water dispenser as the white plastic cup is filled with cool beverage. Normally he'd drink coffee, but the coffee here is awful, and the nurses have been glaring at him since his sixth cup in as many hours.

The doctors have been working on Ebony and Ziva since they arrived. He sent McGee and Abby here, staying himself to keep DiNozzo from going. His eyes haven't changed back to sea-green, and damn it if this is gonna be the time that public finds out about NCIS and their less-than-normal personnel. Lycanthropy is contagious, but few knows – and even fewer believes – that it is only through bite marks and claw scratches from a wer one can be infected with the disease. And even then it is possible to not get infected.

The best cardiologist in the state has been flown in, apparently to pay her debt to Jenny Shepard. Where Jen knows a cardiologist from is unknown, but several of the head of local witch covens have been contacted. Whatever is happening to Ebony, happens to Ziva, only there is no wound, no bullet in her chest. And though revenge is sweet, it is bittersweet that saving Ziva means saving Ebony. It has been nearly impossible to explain to the doctors, because it isn't their local supernatural-friendly hospital.

EBONY PASCAL, the thin file in his lap says. It took them hours to find the file. What Ebony does isn't legal, not even normal. The african-american male who kept her company and held Tony back rendered himself. He claims that he had no idea what Ebony would do. After hearing Tony's witness story, Jethro suspects that what Duncan tells them is true.

The choice, however, does not remain. There is no doubt about what's the right thing to do: save Ziva, whatever the cost. She is a valuable team member, even if she has only been on the team for a short period of time. More importantly, she understands the sole belief of priorities, that leaving someone behind is not an option. Even if she is trained in covertness and special ops of Mossad – hell, before Ziva showed up on their doorsteps, as requested by the very same agency, Jethro was unaware that the Israelis even dealt with supernaturals.

Due to his newest change, or semi-transformation, Jethro has now forbidden Tony to enter the hospital. The nearest hospital from Ebony's club wasn't their usual spot, so they are now forced to surrender to human medics. Last he heard from McGee, the wer had taken refugee at Ziva's, having relented something to Abby about a dog.

The doctor appears, and simultaneously, Jethro and McGee rise from their separate chairs, followed by Abby who's marked by her upset and rather frantic state, chewing her nails. She, too, has grown to care for Ziva although with a more contained glee than with the others.

"Are you family of Ms Day-vid?" the doctor asks.

"Dah-veed," Jethro corrects, "And no, but we have authorization to be informed of her condition. NCIS."

"Well then, okay, but I am going to need for you to inform Miss.. Dah-veed's next-of-kin.. a mister Eli Dah-veed," the brown-haired doctor claims, before continuing to inform them of what the heck is going on. The doctor has already protested at the presence of several witches, claiming it was ludicrous. Both he and the witches have come up empty with a solution. Jethro had seen when they cut her blouse off. He had looked away first, but then seen the scars on her arms, criss-crossing.

"The old woman's body is failing her, I am afraid. Ms David, however, is in excellent shape physically. I can't see any reason why she is experiencing internal bleeding, but for now, we have it under control. Sadly, I'm afraid, she has slipped into a coma."

* * *

><p><strong>Anyway, I am looking for someone who might do some artwork for a website I am creating, an encyclopedia for ALBEIT ABNORMAL. No requirements, just for it to be fitted into the text. <strong>


	13. Tales of Charon: Backlash

**A/N: **Okay, read this, then write what you'd like to hear more about! Or who! I have tried to experiment a little with the characters, seeing as they will each have their own reactions to recent events and future ones.

There is cursing in this chapter. And, oh, can you spot the places I saw when I wrote this? A lot of the characters have "switched places".

* * *

><p>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<p>

Chapter 5: **Backlash**

"This is ridiculous!" the Russian wer scoffs, and Tawny feels an intense desire to growl at the preposterousness of the new wolf in town.

Not only does Ciara believe that Tawny is beneath her, but she hasn't taken any of her claims seriously. Secondly, any attempts to communicate with her pack leader has proven worthless and unsuccessful so far. By the twelfth text, counting the seven deleted drafts on her cell phone, the blonde-haired wer has given up. Ciara does not like being ignored.

Why the Kashin pack bothers with her presence is truly puzzling, but then again, Tawny has never had any diplomatic sense whatsoever.

Hitting 'send', she spins around, nearly groaning when she sees the reproachful stare of Ciara. Not only physically superior, taller than her by three inches, she holds a certain expectancy of those in proximity. Rena the dreadful vampire has fled elsewhere, and Nate is nowhere in sight. Tawny pockets the cell Tony gave her and tries to come up with an excuse. She has been trying for the past hour to get Ciara to reveal why she is here, if not out of curiosity, then to prove the urgency of the meeting to Tony.

"Listen, I can't get to him. Sorry, but if you won't tell me why you want to speak to him, he ain't gonna listen," Tawny fibs, tucking a golden hair in place. She defiantly holds her gaze.

"Obviously you are too low in this hierarchy. This doesn't concern you," the Russian woman says, sipping her drink.

"If it concerns the pack, it does," Tawny angrily points out. "And if this were truly out of political viewpoints, you should've followed the policy of having the decency to call before you entered our territory!"

Delicacy has never been her strong suit, and it does infuriate Ciara. "Quieten, pup," she barks venomously. "You may have your turf now, but if I have my way, you will need to obey."

Without further loathing, Ciara walks off, bolting from the conversation. If it hadn't been to the obvious tension of the situation, Tawny might have cheered out loud. She was getting a migraine. She begins to massage the bridge of her nose, wishing that she was twenty-one. Her mouth is dry, her breath awfully sweet and the stench of vampire is overwhelmingly nauseating. Her skin is tingling with the sensations skating across the room and she can smell the hormones ebbing off the crowd, human and otherwise.

Tawny runs her hand through her hair. The wispy mane positions itself quite funnily, but she does nothing to correct it. Damn, she has grown used to the more relaxed policies of Tony DiNozzo. A decent runner and a good alpha, he has made her forget the cruelties and misunderstandings of the Craven pack – under the reign of Larkin. He confides in her and allows her to question him politely. He listens. Having been an orphan most her life, it is important. Sometimes she wonders where his priorities lie, but mostly he allows her to roam freely. Without a larger pack, she almost feels like an equal.

Nate appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and she refocuses. "Seemed tense," he says.

"You have no idea," Tawny replies, sipping a glass of juice. Its taste is bleak, but she drinks it nevertheless.

His dark eyes study her, unnerving her but also fascinating her. He is different, or perhaps just more prominent in his surveillance. The heated air of the dance floor and bar room make her susceptible to blushing and she finds smiling easy.

"Isn't it a school night?" Tawny asks, filling the settling awkwardness of silence. Whereas she does not attend school, and hasn't for a while, she understands it is normal for a guy his age to be spending time. During the day, she sleeps and stalks the streets nearby her shelter – always making sure to wear an oversized hoodie to cover her unusual appearance. She has found shoplifting an easy task when she cannot find food. Tony has forbidden her to hunt livestock or animals. After a nightly hunt he often gives her money, enough to buy food from the local delis. He has yet to discover where she stays during the day, as awkwardness always seems to surface whenever the subject is breached. Living with him is too much of a commitment although pack prefers closeness.

"I'm not planning on showing up at wood-shop, but don't tell anyone," he jokes.

"So you go to school. Where?"

"I just moved here, so it's a new class. It's in Georgetown," Nate explains. His dark eyes wander the room, although he does not seem that interested. Tawny recognizes the instinct to be in control. Yet he is not wer and likely not aware of her lycanthropy. Maybe not even aware that _Classique _is far from classic.

"Moved from where?" Tawny asks. Her eyes gleam gold in the lights from the dance floor. She has not decided whether or not she likes the night club yet; apart from the vampires, it has proven very tiring, especially dealing with Ciara. She is as obnoxious as she is beautiful and arrogant. Rena certainly keeps an interesting clientele. While she is able to distinguish vampires from humans, and wers, too, she is not sure if there is something more exotic amongst them. This causes her to throw a sideways glance at Nate.

"Kentucky, although we didn't stay there for long," Nate somewhat honestly replies.

"'We'?" she inquires, failing not to pick up on the temptation of teasing him. It certainly is more fun than to distract him with other means.

"My uncle, Dante... I live with him, and he takes me with him. I've been to many places all over the world," the boy says humbly.

"Cool," Tawny merely says, wondering what alternative fits her living arrangements. Most humans do not comply with the rules of the wer. The pack order and independence. After all, she looks fifteen.

* * *

><p>She falls through harsh air, stopping only as she hits water and breaks the surface with a big splash. Then, she is pulled down by something she cannot see, and too late realizes that it is not entirely water she is in, and it is not the current that is taking her. She fights to reach surface, but arms of faceless creatures unknown grab her and hold her down. The temperature is convenient, but she tires as the fight between her will and several beings continue.<p>

Time is relative, and it feels like she has already fought for hours with an invisible enemy. The moment she weakens, they strike from all angles, and she succumbs to exhaustion and lack of oxygen, willing it to be over.

Strong arms grab her, so different from the others, and pull her through the surface. She coughs violently as the person hail her aboard an unstable dinghy. She blinks, empties her lungs of water and watches with disorientation as her surroundings unblurs. The water not water stings like salt water and she is temporarily blinded. For a second she fears it must've damaged her sight, as she can only see hues of white and grey and black, but then looks down on herself. Her usually olive skin is a faint color of its own and remains so, even as she waits for the color to return. Her clothes, the basics as she seems to have lost both her coat and boots in the water fight, are wet and slowly cooling her down. She does not feel cold, nor particularly warm. Everything is shrouded in grey colors, the small dinghy surrounded by thick fog. Her long-sleeved t-shirt clings to her along with her pants, uncomfortably as ever.

Only now does she look at her savior – or captor, depending on his intentions – and realizes the shrouding of this place also applies to him. An aged man watches her from his place in the opposite end of the primitive boat. It is unlike anything she has seen, but it resembles a dinghy the most. Surprisingly, it keeps above water – or whatever it is – and moves forward with a gondola oar. He is wearing a deep cloak made of a light fabric that conceals his identity. His strong arms are aged but in remarkably good shape. From the looks of them, he is at least sixty. Scars and age mar his appearance.

He hands her clothes. She quirks a brow, but gratefully accepts them, looking about for a place of privacy to change. Finding none and no escape from the boat or his gaze, she dons the wet clothes, peeling them off, redressing in the light clothes. She sits there, barefooted, in a shirt with wide cuffs and pants with equally wide hems. Her hair is damp and the shivering has stopped.

"Where am I?" she finally asks after having looking around for ten minutes. The thick surface of the water is nearly oily, and the heavy fog remains constant. She is truly clueless, despite her observant nature.

"Styx," the gravy voice replies, coming from the shrouded figure. His attention is on the oar and the boat's travel, although he answers her question without hesitation.

"The Styx?" she repeats, a little marveled. Even Tony wouldn't go this far in a practical joke. Well, maybe. She recognizes the name from the Greek mythology. Most of what is considered myth is exactly what concerns the NCIS, her new job. Her new, very different job, she may add.

But what it doesn't do is explain how the hell she ended up in the Netherworld. "I died?"

The shrouded figure doesn't answer but makes a movement with his shoulders. It can be interpreted as a yes or a no. Ziva really wouldn't know.

* * *

><p>The apartment smells like cinnamon when she steps in, having composed herself in the drive here. It is a happy memory in the middle of an unraveling world. Abby now has to pretend that she is not affected by her friend's worsening condition. New tears threaten to emerge, but she will not allow them to. Her red plaid skirt is heated from the seat in Tim McGee's car. Even with her enhanced senses, Gibbs didn't trust her to drive alone. Secretly Abby thinks it is more out of the fear of breaking down alone. Gibbs wanted them both out of there; they needed it. However, it doesn't change status quo. It doesn't change how Ziva is in a <em>coma! <em>She is supposed to have all these healing powers, but she has failed them. She hasn't bettered, even with Gibbs trying to.

She kills her sniffles as she closes the door behind her. The smell from the cinnamon buns doesn't help much, but she manages to bravely plaster a smile on her lips, enduring whatever comes for her.

Abby peels the jacket off, hanging it on its hook as she, once again, wipes mascara from under her eyes. While she effortlessly moves without a sound, she makes sure to bump into the panels as she kicks her plateau boots off, alarming her mother of her arrival in the apartment.

"Abby, that you?"

"Yeah, mom," the dhampir says as she walks into the kitchen, loving the sight of her aproned mother baking for her. Kendra Scuito has always been an icon for Abby, her personal superhero. While it may have seen clichéd to come home to cinnamon buns and a baking mom elsewhere, Abby is comforted to have her here, especially now. She doesn't know if she would have wanted to be alone now.

"What's wrong?" Kendra picks up on her unsettlement, putting the tray down. Her light blue eyes shimmer protectively, and it looks silly for her to hug Abby like that, when her daughter is at least a foot taller.

"A colleague, no, friend.. she.. something was done to her today, mum," Abby says, damning the tears mentally as they fall. Her mother has always been a 'cool mom', but never distant. Always there, even when she didn't understand a teenaged Abby.

"Oh, Abigail. Sit down. Is she going to be okay?" Kendra's New Orleans accent burns through and had it been any other situation, it would've made Abby mad.

"They don't know," the dhampir says more fiercely, holding back the tears. "Voodoo.."

"_Mon Dieu_," Kendra says under her breath. Of course, to her ears, it is audible.

Abby begins to explain, her mother following her quick rant, having had years of experience. "Gibbs ordered us home for now – Tim drove me home – but, I just feel so.."  
>".. helpless?"<p>

Abby looks at her mom, looks at the faded auburn hair, the rims of her glasses and the amazing aura of her mother. She feels lucky. "Yeah, like I'd be better doing something more productive..!"

"–than being here?" Kendra states.

"Mum, I didn't mean it like that," the raven-haired goth quickly apologizes, but sees the understanding in her mother's eyes.

"It's okay, babe, emotions will do that to you." She tucks a strand of hair behind Abby's ear, then hands her one of her famous cinnamon buns. Abby has tried to get the recipe out of her for years. 'What would I sell, then, if all my customers went here?' she always claims. Abby doubts that any of her mother's customers would don the adorable setting in her café/bakery. Her pies and muffins rival her cinnamon buns, and from what she gathered when she picked Kendra up from the train station, business is going well. She doesn't get to see her mother as much as she'd like to, and so far, events have spoiled an otherwise pleasant visit.

"At least I'm here, so you don't have to be alone," her mother points out, and a pang of guilt hits Abby. Had Kendra not been here, she would most likely have gone to _Classique_, to Rena. She hasn't told her mother of her recent training with the vampire, mostly because she keeps any vamp-related anything out of her mother's life and their conversations. It is not a subject she is ready to face. Any of them.

The black-haired forensic scientist updates her of the things that have happened since they saw each other; she has bought a new couch, for example, but the subject always seem to linger: Ziva. Telling her mother of their newest team member and her specialness only makes the sorrow resurface.

"Well, have you met anyone interesting? Outside work, for example," Kendra asks, her voice trying to cheer her up. Her tone is that of a mother prying subtly into her daughter's life. Abby does not mind.

"Yesterday, I actually met this guy. Real smooth-talker. Mysterious. I'll tell you about him while we make another portion of these buns," Abby says, swallowing the last bite of the amazing bun. The taste is delicious, even for dhampirs.

"Okay then," the oldest Scuito agrees to her terms, clearing a workspace for her daughter. It reminds Abby of her childhood, and, more importantly, it makes the thought of Ziva a little more distant although ever-present in her mind. The price of being nocturnal.

* * *

><p>The dog seems equally depressed once he determines that Ziva is not appearing out of the blue, belated by Tony's arrival to the apartment. Apache buries his head in Tony's knee, as if trying to cheer him up with his persistent pouts. Absentmindedly, the wer scratches the noble dog behind the ear, revisiting his memory to determine what went wrong at the club. When should he have grabbed Ziva and gotten her the hell out of there. Then she'd be pissed, but safe. Not stuck between life and dead.<p>

Gibbs called twenty minutes ago with the news. No news. Coma. Ziva. Two words he doesn't even associate that will now haunt him forever. He is an Alpha, for god's sake. An entire pack depends on him, and he can't even protect his partner? Bullshit.

His eyes haven't reverted yet. They are stuck mid-transformation, no matter how many times he has morphed to his wolf form and back to make them go away. Weird thing is, he has always had his own eye color in his wolf form. Never the yellowish gleam of something truly wolf-like. Right now they are close to a wicked green, a mix of his own and the proclaiming yellow color. No humans have eyes like that. A few years back, he would have freaked at the sight and doctors would have said renal failure.

He knows he should call Olive, the wer doctor from the pack in New York. Gibbs more than mildly suggested that if he hadn't gotten his usual blues back now, he better call her right away. He can't bring himself to do it, because it'd mean that he gets to be treated _(possibly)_ and Ziva doesn't.

It is childishly stubborn, but it's what he sticks to. He hasn't gone to see Ziva yet, knowing fully well what kind of reaction he'd get with these eyes. He can't bring himself to care.

He has taken a jog with Apache, almost morphing and racing with dog, but he is not sure if he possesses the same control of Patchwork – as he has so adoringly dubbed the dog – in wolf form. Plus, size really does matter.

Truthfully, he is scared shitless for Ziva. Sure, she has been hurt before, but her healing abilities have always worked. Always. Wer bites, a semi-severed leg, everything. This time, it's different. Very so, because voodoo is involved. Ebony Pascal took whatever advantage from Ziva, from _them _as a whole, and turned the tables violently before they could realize what was happening.

It is no secret that Tony blames himself for a lot that happens to his new partner. Three months into her new job and she's in a coma. _Great job, Tony._

None of them is hopeless in a fight, some more advanced than others, but the Neutrally Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism's top unit should have prevented this. They hunt the ones who prey on humans, who stalk the night. Things that go bump in the night. Why did they underestimate Ebony Pascal?

Worst thing is, the guy they brought in – Duncan, – he is losing it. He swears he didn't know anything about Madam Ebony's dark intentions. He is being held for questioning in the case of assaulting a federal officer. That's what they call it so far. Premeditated murder is what Tony calls it in his mind, if Ziva doesn't survive. He saw the fatal shot, Gibbs delivered into the old woman. He also saw the dark glint in Ebony's eyes before she did whatever she did to bind herself to Ziva. He knows that if Ebony's strings are cut, Ziva dies. His physical superiority cannot help in a situation like things. Forgotten are things like Kay Monroe and teasing Probie endlessly. He has broken Ziva in, he doesn't want to see her gone, dead, transferred or otherwise. He doesn't want to see Ebony empowered by doctors working on Ziva. Frankly, he'd rather see Ebony dead than alive.

The anger fuels his inner wer and it threatens to take over. Gibbs has already contacted every witch coven nearby, and they are working on a cure. Tony wishes he had more hope than to find it pointless.

He pats Apache on the head before he decides to leave. He knows that bringing the dog with him won't solve anything, but he seeks companionship of someone who doesn't question his every move. He already thinks he has screwed up plenty. Fetching the leash, Tony leaves the apartment of his partner, her loyal dog following him eagerly.

Apache jumps into the Mustang with ease, not stopping to sniff it first like Tony has seen other dogs do. No, the Canaan dog accepts that he is going with Tony and for more than first time, Tony wonders if wers have an affinity to dogs. He doesn't sense Apache like he senses Tawny or the other wers that chose to remain in D.C. after the standoff with Larkin. The standoff fight in which he killed his own half-brother. He hasn't told anybody, but he still has nightmares about it, even if he knows that it had to be done. Every time he closes his eyes at night, he tries to come up with another solution but is always forced to watch himself kill his brother.

The glove compartment is a mess, but he eventually finds what he is looking for, a donned pair of Aviators. They look ridiculous, but enables him to go to the hospital. He needs to do something, and if it's not working the case, he sure as hell is going to guard Ziva like the wer he is.

* * *

><p>Anybody who calls Jennifer Sheppard in perfect control of every situation possible is sadly mistaken. She is working her nineteenth hour today, having clocked in at 5.45 A.M., and yet she is still prevented from going home, or, in this case, visiting her friend at the hospital.<p>

How did this day escalade so very wrong? Yesterday she was talking to Ziva, showing concern for her friend's well-being and the toll her recent hire is taking on her. After all, she knows the Israeli better than any of her new teammates, and while she is confident in Ziva's abilities to adapt into new environments and challenges, she wants to be sure that her friend fits in.

It was Ziva who sought Jen out after she heard of the NCIS. Modestly, she came to apply for a job, a favor. Considering that Jenny would have likely risked her life to pay her debt to Ziva, it was an oddly modest request. Although she didn't know the Israeli as well at the time, she had seen the Mossad officer in action where she showed complete devotion and determination, never second-guessing herself and the consequences of her actions.

"Deputy Director David," she says softly, her voice diplomatic with the weight of coming omen. The man on the video conference screen is professional and stern, but his facial expression softens ever so slightly at the tone.

"Director Sheppard," he greets, his eyes narrowing. "What do I owe this call?"

"It concerns your officer, Eli. Ziva," she corrects after hesitating. Eli David has always shown great interest in keeping the formalities when it concerns his daughter. Jenny supposes it is to avoid being accused of bias; while in fact it is more likely that he knows his daughter thrives on independence from her upbringing. The Israeli has a fun way to show love for his daughter but Jenny is not one to question him so bluntly about the way he cares for his daughter. Being in charge has taken its toll on Jen as well.

"What has Officer David done?" While the tone is easily mistaken as disinterest and disappointment, Jen notes the brief concern that shines through in a moment of weakness. His sly expression changes as if finally wishing to skip formalities.

"After an incident, she has unwillingly been … _bound _to one of our suspects. Unfortunately, in the same incident, this suspect was injured and it has now resulted in a twin hospitalization." Jenny tries her best to explain the current situation in the simplest of terms. Her ambiguousness seems to agitate Eli.

"Sheppard…," he says, his voice elevating threateningly. She can see his knuckles turn white as he is losing his patience with her.

"Director David," Jen replies formally, getting down to business. "Ziva David is in a coma."

* * *

><p>The boat rocks slightly, unnerving its new passenger, but all she can see when she looks at the mud-grey surface is tiny waves, completely needless of worrying. The fog hasn't disappeared, and the boat seems to be going nowhere although the shrouded man's attention is on the oar. She has taken to studying the boat, not having a particular desire to reenter the water (or whatever it is). She is grateful for her rescue but his silence combined with her ignorance annoys her.<p>

"_Who are you?_" she asks, tired of his ambiguousness. She has always been glad for the direct approach although she is a frequent user of psychological warfare. She shares her father's cunning and calculative mind but also her mother's compassion. It comes with the healing touch, as much as she has tried to suppress it.

"_The term 'what' would be more appropriate, passenger_," the boatman replies in her native tongue, surprising her. Light surges hit the boat, the surface rippling in the process. The peaceful nature is contrary to her recent memories of the treacherous water. "I am the boatman."

Ziva's mind searches for a possible reference point. Like the name of these waters, Styx, she remembers something but cannot pinpoint it. Seeing her puzzled expression, the man chuckles. "Charon."

"The one who ferries the dead across the Styx?" Ziva asks, the information suddenly rushing to her. She knows her Greek mythology from her studies, but it has been ages since she accessed any of this. She can barely believe this, yet she has always been stuck between skepticism and acceptance. Her Mossad training allows this.

"Yes, child," Charon confirms blithely. The nickname sends a shudder down her spine but she cannot recall why, just a bad association with the otherwise harmless word, child. Her mind is clouded, much like the Styx itself. There is water as far as her sight can tell. Stretches beyond that, too, but she isn't sure because the fog is deceiving. She has never seen anything like it, except from some of the movies she has watched with Tony lately. He insists upon it.

She has grown frustrated over the fact she cannot recall the last few days. She remembers getting a call and an address where an active crime scene was located, but the rest is a blank, and yet she _knows _that it's not the full story. However, it is only one of the never-ending surfacing questions. Ever since Charon pulled her from the water and essentially saved her from drowning, she has been wondering from where she fell. Because she remembers falling but not the point of origin of the fall. Strange. And if there's anything Ziva hates being, it's uninformed. It goes back to her childhood, where she would be nearly frenzied if she sensed someone keeping something from her. Was it birthday present, secret or otherwise, she would be totally irrational and demand to be kept in the loop.

Ziva sighs at the memory, trying to locate some escape from this place, but it seems the Styx stretches far beyond travel, which makes Charon's words if possible even stranger. Then again, she has never been the one to give up hope. He _had _to have known where she'd fall (or he was just that lucky) or she would have drowned. But, how?

"Where are we going?" she asks, choosing her words carefully. While it applies to her escaping, it is also a condition; should Charon decide not to wish her presence on his boat, there is no argument. Maybe she can overpower him, but so far, he has been peaceful.

"The Netherworld," the boatman answers gravelly, as if he has lived a rough life, seeing many things that are not for him to see.

"But, how?"

"You'll see," Charon says in a tone that tells Ziva she won't be on the receiving end of information anytime soon. She stares at the wet pile of clothes by her feet. It looks like seaweed and hasn't dried in the time she has been here. Reaching for her necklace, the star of David, she discovers that it's gone. Fearing she may have lost it, she hastily searches the pile. Disappointedly, she only finds a necklace she does not recognize. Charon doesn't claim it, and it is indeed in the pocket of her pants.

"No religious items here, I'm afraid," the boatman informs her, as if he knows she is searching for her necklace. Still, it is more of an ancestral item than religious. While she is not that religious, due to her many influences abroad, it still saddens her.

She studies the other necklace for a while. Charon keeps quiet as she expected. The design itself is simple, tightened with a thread of leather and a simple stone in each end to keep the pendants from falling off the cord. The pendants seem to be made of some sort of bone, homemade. The stones shine wickedly in the strange light from the river. Onyx, Ziva guesses. Each one has rune-like engravings. Her fingertips run over the smooth surface, attempting to warm the stones but they remain cold. Somehow she knows that it is important.

If she could only remember.

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><p><strong>AN2: I have created a sorta encyclopedia, but it contains spoilers I'm not ready to reveal yet, so behave and I'll insert the link in the next chapter. Oh, and by "behave", I mean, reviews :D**

**-What do you wanna see more off?**


	14. Tales of Charon: Unveil

**A/N: **Finally, a chapter of Tales of Charon. It's a bit of a JIBBS chapter, but I think you'll like where this is going. **Also, THERE IS GOING TO BE ARI IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!**

Wow, I feel like I should say more. Thank you for all the awesome reviews and comments! It keeps me going!

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you may recognize as NCIS.**

* * *

><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<strong>

Chapter 6:** Unveil**

The rhythmic beeping of the hospital equipment is far from comforting yet oddly calming. It is a reminder of the consequences of recent events and also the defiance of one of their own.

After convening with severals NCIS agents who had expressed a desire to help the liaison, most part of her team with exceptions to a few in the psychic department, Gibbs has gone to see his newest team member once again, checking up on her. She is still pale, her physical trauma echoing Ebony Pascal's, but her body is handling it slightly better, if he is to trust the doctors.

Having Ziva David on his team the past three months have opened roads. She has proven useful not only in theoretical matters, but almost invaluable in the field. While he doubted her the first few weeks – seeing and recognizing her impatience and annoyance and writing it off as pure inexperience and a laid-back attitude he wouldn't allow – he saw her spring into action with precisely the discipline he required from his team. As most, he had underestimated the Israeli, not only because of her size.

He has adapted to having the fierce, strong-hearted woman on his team, if not for her healing abilities then for her preparedness and the fact that she learns frighteningly fast. Then of course, he should've known, as Jen headhunted her.

As if on cue, the red-haired director steps into the room, private by request, her hands folded in her lap, gaze sorrowful. "I should have known you'd be here. Chris Pacci said you left suddenly and very dramatic."

"I was just stopping by. To see if..," he trails off, not sure what to say. He receives an understanding look from Jen.

"I know," Jen sighs, closing her eyes painfully. "I just informed Eli David of Ziva's condition."

Gibbs reads the uncertainty in her voice as if she is doubting if it's the right thing to do. "How'd he take it?"

"As well as to be expected, considering," his boss informs him. "Have you called Kelly?"

The grey-haired agent recognizes the distraction but accepts the thrown bone. "Yeah. She is staying with a friend. Right now I need to focus on this, Jen. None of the covens have any ideas what this is, and the one person who seemed able to tell us what was going on is lying right there."

"You are referring to Ziva's extensive knowledge of voodoo," Jen points out, sitting down in the chair next to the one he is already occupying.

"Yeah, know anything 'bout that?" he bits sarcastically.

The sylph scoffs at the suggestion. "I have never been directly involved in voodoo, but from my sources, including Mikhail Darrel, I only bring bad news. Nobody seems to be able to identify what Mrs Pascal did to bind herself to Ziva in this way."

The team leader notices how stressed she looks. Maintaining a political front for an already doubtful agenda requires constant devotion to avoid upheaval. While he often protests and disobeys her orders, he actually has little problems with working under her. He does have some problems relating to her, and some of the time he thinks she deserves some field time to reconsider her allies and agenda, but in the end, her decisions have been just.

He remembers his days as a Hunter. How their views collided but how they ultimately got their guy. It wasn't always Jen Sheppard sympathized with his goal – bringing down by lethal force – or agree to his methods, but he likes to think he grew on her.

"Sir,.." a nurse calls out behind them, gently making them aware of her presence. "A man is here and wishes to see Miss David."

"Let him in," Gibbs says, groaning as he does so. He should have known that Tony wouldn't be able to stay away too long. He has never been great at sitting down and watching from the sidelines. And Jethro suspects becoming a wer didn't trigger it.

"DiNozzo," he acknowledges when the young wer steps in, having covered his eyes with sunglasses. Jen nods to her employee.

"How is she?" he asks, his eyes settling on Ziva behind the shades. He ignores the grunt in Gibbs' voice deliberately.

"No change. Doctors say she's doing slightly better," he informs his senior agent. He won't comment on his appearance; he looks like hell, but the grey-haired Hunter knows that he's probably not better himself.

"Director."

"Agent DiNozzo," Jen says in return, watching as the wer keeps throwing gazes in Ziva's direction. He is worried, that's for sure; and if Gibbs knows his agent, which he does, the wer blames himself for not interfering. As far as Gibbs is concerned, he isn't to blame.

"What's the status on the case, boss?"

"Same as they were an hour ago, DiNozzo," Jethro informs him, letting Jenny talk.

"Local witch covens have been informed of the situation, as well as the more cooperative voodooists on the list that Mikhail Darrel gave us. Sadly we can't move any of them, Ebony nor Ziva, but I don't think that any of our more paranormal hospitals would be of much use, either. I suspect that we'll have to look into them individually to see if any.. interference might've caused this."

"You're insinuating that Ebony didn't do this on purpose?" Gibbs says, surprised.

"Oh, I doubt her intentions were otherwise. However, that being said, Ziva should've healed anyway, both herself and, by default, Ebony. But neither are fully healed even though we've seen how much she can heal before she tires out," the red-haired politician says, her facial expression concerned. "I'm having Eli David forward her mission reports to see if Ziva was previously exposed to anything that might've interfered with the ritual Ebony used to bind them."

"He agreed to that?" Gibbs asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I.. suggested that it may be to the advantage of both agencies if Ziva was to recuperate fast," Jenny admits embarrassed.

"Nice," Tony points out with the slightest of smiles. Gibbs is gonna have to agree: Jen playing the dirty cards is amusing.

"Now, get back to headquarters, you two. I want to see my liaison healed ASAP."

"Yes, ma'am."

_**(BREAK)**_

As it so happens, Ziva's condition doesn't improve. However, it does not lessen the work of the group burning the midnight oil at the NCIS field office. Eleven people looking less than stellar, but all ready for instant help if needed, are tracking down leads and talking to people with a certain knowledge who coincidentally seems to have a knack for playing on the wrong side of the law. Blackmail is usually not their approach, but they have never heard of anything like this. Some of them doesn't even believe it themselves, but works any way.

Tony has stepped up to the task. He is organizing the field work, rechecking their steps and coordinating with the witch coven of Arlington who is currently routing through the backroom of the club that has been ordered on lockdown tonight. The club owner is already filing a harassment complaint, but they are able to keep it down, seeing as he offered accommodations to a felon. Charges won't stick, but the agents play with what they've got. Tony is watched by Gibbs, who is keeping track of all leads and dead ends. They are working with three witch covens who have actively offered their help. Grace Warner, twin to Jimmy Palmer, has canceled plans to be here to work with the more eccentric kind. Gibbs has ordered Tim McGee to find a healer for Ziva.

"Boss, we've established that, as far as we know, the ritual allows the binder and the recipient to be linked. While the condition of Ziva mirrors Ebony's, Ziva shouldn't be comatose. we.. think, that it was because the ritual was interrupted," Tony admits, choosing his words carefully.

Frankly, Gibbs feels more guilty than ever. It was the bullet from his SIG Sauer that injured Ebony and essentially, Ziva. In his mind, he might as well have shot the liaison.

"What about her healing abilities?" a young agent, Pacci, dares to ask. He waves a file that looks suspiciously much like Ziva's, since she joined NCIS. Pacci is the son of a witch, yet has no ounce of magical blood in him. Magic, Gibbs snorts mentally.

"The ritual is interfering. Probably because Ziva's body cannot heal the original wound. Not while she is unconscious," McGee points out, absentmindedly.

Turning his head to speak directly to McGee, Pacci starts to discuss. "But, couldn't she heal the damage to her own body?"

"The witches theorize that her body is trying to, but Ebony's link keeps re-injuring her," McGee sighs, although whether it's because of Pacci's ignorance or the situation is unknown.

"Not counting in the fact that she can hold off on healing her own injuries. Her regenerative abilities might be a conscious factor," Tony points out darkly, appearing behind them with as much grace as he can muster. Although not showing it, Gibbs notices how he himself didn't notice the absentee agent return. His hair is damp from the rain and he resembles a soaked-wet dog. Or wolf is perhaps the best term, given his yellowish eyes.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs threatens, then proceeds to allow him to speak.

"Well, I tracked down a Prim Cartier. She's a mortician, boss, but also a voodooist. She knew Ebony." His wer pauses, testing the waters. "She says that, while having ulterior motives and a fondness of testing boundaries, Ebony isn't powerful enough to send someone into a coma. Not unwillingly, at least."

"How come we've missed her actions these past years?" Grace asks, having come down from the harbingers' lounge. She shakes her head, declaring no further evidence how to solve the puzzle that is the Ebony/Ziva condition.

Tony continues, eyeing the harbinger. "But she did, however, offer to help us with breaking the link."

"Where is she?"

"Of course, both parties have to be conscious for the ritual," Tony responds sheepishly. "Rena did also not have a clue, but several theories."

"Rena?" Gibbs repeats, not remembering anyone by the name. Not someone involved in the case, not a freelancer and certainly not an agent.

Tony nearly blushes at his own forgetfulness. "Yeah, boss, Abby's, er, friend, who owns the nightclub."

Gibbs continues to stare, not seeing the connection as to why one of Abby's er-friends would be involved in the case. Or should have a clue or 'several theories'.

Tony groans, finally releasing more information. "The vampire, boss."

"Vampire? What does a vampire has to say to a voodoo case?"

"She is well-connected. Well, who wouldn't after a few hundred years..," DiNozzo trails off, trying to blank his face from further embarrassment. "We're negotiating territories," he explains solemnly.

"Agents."

As if on cue, all the present agents and personnel of the quickly assembled task force point their heads in the direction of their newly arrived CEO. And they can all see the exhaustion on Jennifer Sheppard's face, even though dawn is nearing. Her trench coat is still wet from the rain, yet she hasn't just arrived to the building. Her green eyes quickly settle unto Gibbs.

"Jethro."

The senior agent in charge follows her lead, walking into her office without further delay. He quickly updates her on the situation, although he clearly expects something in return.

"I have been arguing with Director David for the better part of two hours. He is allowing us access to Ziva's files. All of them," she adds, like it has taken a huge part of her to negotiate that. "They should be accessible in moments. However," Jen says, exposing herself for a second or two and showing him how truly tired she is. "I suggest you keep whatever details private. No unnecessary leaks."

"Would I do that, Jen?" Gibbs says, slightly offended, but it fades out when he sees the grind of her response.

"You would, in the past," his director points out, bringing them both back to the times where he was Jethro Gibbs and she was Detective Sheppard; clashing whenever possible. He remembers the specific incidents – there were several – when she had reluctantly brought him in on a joined case and then asked an outsider for help. A necessary leak, he'd insisted. The next case they'd worked had been all spice and vice.

Their gazes soften. "Ziva is my friend. She saved my life. I trust you to bring her back, so I won't go on, but please don't force me to assign a new member."

Gibbs smirks. "I wouldn't dare, Jen," he whispers, kisses her on the forehead and leaves before she can comment. Before she can reprimand him. Before she realizes that it was comforting.

_**(BREAK)**_

"Who are you, really?" she decides to ask, curiosity getting the better of her. She has never been particularly patient and has been reprimanded several times for her inability to stay quiet and still for long; the punishments have taught her how to.

The boatman doesn't reply immediately, and Ziva is about to repeat her question when his aged, dry lips move, his voice throaty.

"I am Charon," he says with a voice that is either confusion or persistency. Ziva cannot tell. He doesn't speak slowly and old-keyed like she estimated. In fact, he just seems so insignificant; having accepted his path a long time ago. Then he turns his head slowly, parts showing from the shadows of his hood, and asks: "And who are you?"

Startled, she answers honestly. "Ziva. My name is Ziva."

It seems like her name has trigged an interest in the old man – or being. His head lifts itself an inch higher, straightening his spine. "And what, Ziva, has gotten you here?"

"I.. I don't know. I mean, I cannot remember," she confesses, once again traveling her eyes across the eerie landscape. Or seascape. Riverscape, to be exact, if what he says is true. The water, filled with souls who have thrown themselves desperately into the water, shines treacherously silver like mercury poison in the otherwise caverned surroundings. Ziva cannot see shore anywhere.

"You question what you see?" Charon asks in a half-question.

"It's just," she sighs, "of all the mythologies to be true to the afterlife, I would not have picked this one. I have always thought it to be mere myth."

"The Netherworld is not the only one, dear child," the boatman replies cryptically. He rises the oar out of the water, placing it horizontally across his knees. "I once did not believe its existence, but here I am, confined to ferry the dead."

Sensing the story goes beyond those few words, she swallows and looks at him curiously, trying to assess his intentions. He sounds so weathered, so wise, like he has been ferrying since the concept of time. "Confined?"

His chuckle surprises her. "I was once a man. A mere man, but a man who worked and cared for my family."

The urge and longing for her Star of David is not easily resistible, but she serves the weirder necklace no glance. For some reason, the little tales he offers seem so.. sad. "Is that not what we all do? Work to care for someone?"

The moment after it's said, Ziva no longer remembers if she is the one to say them, or the words are Charon's. Nevertheless, she wonders and looks at the boatman, unsure if she is going to get an answer.

"Not all fathers understand the division of work and family," Charon says.

She can only nod as a painful pit is gathering in her stomach. She pushes it away along with any tears that have managed to well unprofessionally in her eyes. Composed while she can, she replies: "Do we all?"

For the first time, the boatman looks at her, really looks at her and not just throws a glance in her direction. The orbs that shine from under the hood gleam tiredly, like he is figuring her out. The oar is perfectly balanced on his knees, the journey momentarily up to the currents of the Styx. He looks at her with newfound..., what? Impression? Pride? She cannot see his face and cannot decipher his intentions. She can read how his voice stammers at the harsh reality of his honest words. He sounds so hurt, so timelessly weathered. It intrigues her, because people mostly are too busy with meaningless things, but here he is, weathered by death, undisturbed by the living, and she feels like she has met a kindred spirit who offers understanding.

_**(BREAK)**_

Tony can barely stand to watch the fragility of his partner as she lies still, machines helping her to live. He can barely stand the thought that he is here and she is not, and halfway expects her to shut the curtain aside, declaring her victory at fooling him. But no, she just keeps still, her chest rising almost defeatedly, her long hair fanned against the pillow. He cannot help but play with it, the curls that stray from her dark mane of hair, like a coin between his fingers. He still carries the Aviators, hating the disguise and the reason to it; but he commits these precious moments to memory, knowing that he will have to leave in minutes time, going for a lead out of town. A few minutes ago he received the text about the full clearance to the redtaped version of Ziva's file. He doubts they will be honest, just like he doubts that anything Mossad tells him will define the essence that is his partner.

"Agent DiNozzo?"

He is about to lash out at the nurse – can't she see that he is close to tears already? – when he recognizes her scent. It is Sister Margaret, one of the available healers they have managed to find, who has been tragically unsuccessful.

"Yeah, Sister?" he says, his voice weirdly hoarse as he composes himself. He will not give up on Ziva after one night. That is too close to blasphemy – then again, he has never been a praying man.

Other healing hands touch his partner, and he instinctually moves his hand over Ziva's, killing a growl in his throat. Dammit, he thought he had his inner wer under control, but recent events are taking their toll on his self-restraint.

"I have tried to heal your colleague, even knowing that she is a healer herself, but I failed to do so. It is amazing...," she comments, her hands straying Ziva's hands and forearms. She seems lost in thought.

"What is?" Tony asks, really not caring, but not wanting to leave Ziva bare and vulnerable with a healer, even of the cloth.

"She has functioning healer abilities, as wrong as it might seem given the situation, which is why you don't notice at first, but I had the chance to catch a look during the surgery where I was assisting. The scars. They are ritualistic."

He makes a face of ignorance, not understanding where she is going. "Wiccan?"

"Some," the sister acknowledges, nodding. "Their physical manifestation is concealed by magical means. Peeling them gave me quite the headache, but it seemed important." She takes her eyes off Ziva, sending a rush of protectiveness through the wer.

"Burn marks. Old bite marks. Tattoos some might call satanic, but people like us know better," the sister says with a sad smile. Upon seeing Tony's startled reaction, she blushes. "Sorry, I just assumed you and she were..."

"No," he swallows, "we're not."

The sister does not seem to believe it, but she does not comment further, merely downs her concentration on Ziva before settling her attention on him. "She is a lost soul. Doing these things to herself –."

" –Who said anything about doing it herself, sister?" Tony grows defensive.

"That is the only reason I can recall to putting such protection spells, Agent DiNozzo. It requires much concentration and is impossible to do to another.. without permission, that it what I meant."

_**(BREAK)**_

While Tim is searching the tri-state area for people arrested for obscure medical reports – each healer has their own signature and even healers are admitted to hospitals for check-ups – he goes through the less blacked-out pages of Ziva's record. It states that she served in the Israeli Defense Force for the mandatory two years with a exemplary record, before going from the IDF to (add blacked-out page) – something about Mossad top unit – and then proceed as 'an additional member of Mossad's combat-ready special ops unit'. There is, sadly, no official account for her days as a healer, but then again, they are still having pages translated by people who actually have the clearance and awareness of what NCIS does, so if there is missing context, it might be cleared in the morning. Except, every hour counts, something Tim is painfully aware of.

The pages always seem so official, leaving very little recollection of what actually happened, which makes the junior agent contemplate whether the missions and assignments were sanctioned or not by the Israeli government. He is not surprised that Israel has no official registry of people of the supernatural, but Ziva's extensive military record is impressive in itself. The requirements alone! There are a few incident reports – according to Agent Lee who is in charge of the translations – but they are "complicated". How, Tim has no idea. These reports and the veiled half-truths are giving him a headache, but he knows that everyone else is working just as hard on either clearing and solving the case (Abby particularly – he saw her come in again despite claiming to go home to her mother who is in town for the week) or finding a solution to Ebony and Ziva's conditions. Condition. Whatever, Tim thinks. Anything that will help medical personnel help his co-worker get better – be it magical or otherwise. He has never met any other healers, aside from the Israeli, and always thought it fictional.

By the third hour, he is still not getting any hits. He has read through Ziva's military file, and sworn himself to secrecy while he is at it, when he encounters problems. Her juvenile record is inaccessible. He frowns, thinking it is a mistake on his part – Sheppard assured them that all resources would be available. He tries to crack the file, but it is sealed by court – her father no doubt (and Tim hates that he can think that after acquiring only intel from paper) – and needs decryption.

This is madness! How are Ziva's past – stripped from all real content and context, leaving little and scarce information left – going to help them? They need details, medical file, anything that suggests supernatural interference!

So Tim McGee goes back to the scarce personnel file Mossad sent over and reads the fine print, copies down every name from evaluations and promotions; recommendations by senior officers, be it Mossad or IDF. And then he starts dialing once he finds the numbers.

He has not coped with the fact that the emotionally toughest – perhaps sans Gibbs – of them is lying in a hospital bed, barely breathing on her own. He has had to accept weird things at this workplace – things he would have never believed in as a child – but he has learnt that there are Boogeymen out there who do not belong to the human element, that witches, vampires, werewolves, healers and fairies are real, all while thinking all his life that he has been the freak seeing ghosts because of childhood trauma. While he belongs at NCIS, and is not disabled by his abilities, he doesn't know if he likes the danger. Who takes care of his sister if anything happens to her? She is barely nineteen years old! And what happened to Ziva shows him the risks.

Sometimes he thinks he is insane – plenty of other people think it, too. His boss increases strength, he works with a vampire, his partner is a lycanthrope, he sees ghosts and one of his co-workers can heal a shotgun wound almost instantaneously. Not to speak of the medical examiner who is telepathic and whose assistant possesses some precognitive abilities. If he told anyone this, he would not only be facing charges of breaching national security, he would be labeled a complete psychotic. And while he has learnt to deal with these facts, mortality increases to blow him off his feet. He doesn't want to see Ziva gone; no, she is just settling in, Tony has accepted her, she is part of the team.

_Eli David. Monique Lisson. Ari Haswari. Raquel Cohen. Moshe Goldstein... _The list goes on. People who might tell him what happened – although he saves Eli David for last – before the incident reports come in from Translation.

Then his watch alert him that it is time to go pick up a Caff-Pow! for Abby, whose vampire metabolism makes it necessary, especially when Gibbs is nowhere to be found. Mixing a hungry vampire with an emotional one is never a good idea.

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><p><strong>AN: Totally un-betaed but I wanted it out there. Now, I am going to bring Ari back... Don't worry, he'll be in a place he deserves to be... Too bad I already had Tony kill _his _half-brother. **


	15. Tales of Charon: Path to the Past

**A/N: I seem to use Nate a lot, considering he isn't all that interesting. I wanted to establish a connection to Tawny, but there you have it. This chapter is about interconnections between the various OCs. I apologize for the delay, it had no bars. But now I am back, five days from my new school!**

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><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<strong>

Chapter 7:** Path to the Past**

Georgetown during the day is a place of life. Crowds buzz the street, busy and ambitious, leaving behind traces of their own mortality in their sprint for success. From her favorite lunch spot, she can see the Potomac River in all its mighty glory. It calms her from the rivets of people and it is her sanctuary the hour she is allowed off-campus. She doesn't stray far from the high school buildings and auditoriums, simply walks half a block and enjoys the lovely view of water from a bench where she can eat in relative peace from the busy world around her. Sometimes her girlfriends accompany her, sometimes she goes alone. Today, however, she has a lot on her mind, and has declined to go to their usual delicatessen for lunch.

Kelly slept at Misty's yesterday. This morning, she greeted the parents and sister of her classmate before getting driven to school by Misty's lawyer father. She has never questioned her father's way of upbringing, always known deeply in her heart that he loves her and wants her safe, but knowing the things that go bump in the night and keeping it from her ignorant friends at school is paying a price. Keeping secrets is something any teen will do, but from her closest friends? It feels wrong, and must be why she retreats from the schoolyard and its cafeteria.

She is different from most kids at her high school, how prestigious it may be. Her childhood consists of a single-parent home and a broken record of two stepmothers. She knows their full names, did her best to be open to the idea and by a nice girl, but learned to dislike them both. They weren't bad per see, but they were ignorant. They never truly understood her father, and every marriage lead to a bitter divorce. Stephanie and Diane, both women who tried to be de facto mothers and wives and failed miserably. She still knows where they live, knows that Diane remarried and had a daughter named Emily, but she should have seem disaster coming. But she was eight and ten – how should she have known? She just hoped her father would be happier with a new wife. She feels guilty not warning the two red-haired women of that.

A few months ago, she learned that her mother was killed by wers. Not even her death is natural or sacred, as Kelly's life rarely is. She sometimes wonders whether her father would still be married if he didn't work as a Hunter and a member of the NCIS unit. If he had shied away from werewolves instead of confronting them, he might have lead a normal life in a normal job instead of quitting the Marine Corps. But _semper fi_, Kelly knows that he did what he did out of revenge. She is not naïve, her father has done things that no ignorant government would sanction. At least now he is amongst friends who care and know about the things. But Kelly does not have these kinds of friends who she can rant on about to. She has human friends, mostly with no ounces of supernatural blood for friends and an oath to her father to keep silent.

If only Lou, Marie and Misty could know. As a spot-eye, she can sense abilities. Even those which lure under the surface. She is not a psychic, but in her time at Woodrow Wilson High, she has encountered few supernaturals. An adolescent witch coven (only two members with actual witch ancestry) has been the worst. To the public eye, she is Kelly Gibbs, daughter of a federal agent, resident A-student and member of the soccer team and of the archery club, well-known around school, not quite popular but not quite unpopular. Her father has always said that wherever she felt home, he would support her. However, it is hard to feel supported when your father is off hunting down vampires and your mother is dead. No, not cool dead or even undead, simply murdered-and-buried, rotting-in-a-casket dead. It has been hard for her to acknowledge the fact earlier in life, confusion and bitter forgetfulness replacing any genuine feelings about her mother, but one of them – her father and herself – needs to accept it, and seeing as she has no real clear memories of her mother, she is it. She wonders what it'd be like, having a mother to deal with the supernatural work of her father's, but it is pure speculation.

Despite being grown and mature enough to take care of herself, the seventeen-year-old girl promised her father yesterday that she would stay at a friend's, seeing as he could not come home. Sensing the need for comfort, she agreed, and only now worries for what has happened to make her father, a former marine, this unnerved.

"Hi, can I sit down with you?" The voice startles her, but she looks up and sees a haloed boy with the sun in his back. He is smiling awkwardly, looking like a freshman, and upon confirmation – a pin to his shirt with the Wilson High insignia – she smiles back. He is a fellow student, on the run from the chaotic lunch break in the school cafeteria.

She nods. "Sure, there's room. You a student?"

"Yeah," he admits, and sitting down, she can now see what the shadows hid. He is awkwardly built teenage boy with dark, blue-dyed locks and a paleness that should ward off sane mothers. Kelly, who rarely judges people on their looks, but resorts to using her gut feeling, finds herself focusing on the shimmering green eyes that nervously scatter from detail to detail. Emo or not, Kelly insists on greeting people. Some of what Joann's taught her still lingers. Barely.

"Kelly," she says, extends her hand. "Kelly Gibbs."

"Nathan Navarro. You can call me Nate, though," he quickly adds, stumbling across his words. He is sweet, the kind of grade school cuteness still apparent, and she likes that; most boys at school – those not facing Special Agent Gibbs anytime soon – are too busy trying to man up and pull macho bullshit whenever somebody glances their way. Too many jocks and arrogant nerds, Kelly is not sure which she likes the least. Nate, on the other hand, seems like somebody who doesn't fit it. An outsider by situation.

When he sits down next to her, Kelly feels a slight pull from her heart. She does not blush nor admits to being attracted to him – she is not, he is not her type – but smiles sadly to herself with a mental sigh. He has bloodline magic in his veins. Is he aware? She studies him for a few moments. It is not her job to tell people, but if he does not learn to control what his ancestry had cursed him with, any victims of his powers will feel like her responsibility. She studies him casually, deciding that his powers of resurrection must be inactive. He may not have to deal with it for years, or for a lifetime unless something triggers it.

"It's a beautiful spot. The way the zenith sun settles on the surface," Nate replies.

She agrees. The arguably infinite energy and power of the sun shines knowingly, ablaze in the sky. Where it hits water, illuming light appears, blinding her for the image of the surface.

"You come here often?"

"Sometimes. Today, I needed the quiet. Do you like the quiet, Nate?" she asks, her eyes once again settling unto the water, like she does whenever she Spots something that she doesn't want to see.

"Sometimes," he replies with a smile, nursing a cup of something that smells suspiciously like tea. Ruining the moment, she asks, raising a brow.

"Tea? What's that for a kind of beverage?"

He smiles uncertainly. "Caffeine makes me dizzy."

"Then that has to be herbal. And that tastes shitty," she tells him, eyeing the cup with a newfound disgust. Herbal tea is not her thing; while she is a lover of tea, herbal tea, the kinds easier available, always seem to disappoint her. She is a product of American caffeine addiction, but not a fallen victim like her dad.

He grins, sipping the liquid. "True, but it's supposedly good for you."

"Supposedly."

"Now you sound like a conspiracist," he informs her, trying to catch the right glimpse.

"Wouldn't that be ironic," she mutters under her breath.

"What was that?" he asks, obviously having heard her do just that. Whatever; she would rather make him think that she is a freak than the truth – her father hunts the supernatural and Uncle Sam pays him for it. Talk about panic.

"Nothing," she fibs, faking a smile. Then she faces him, getting strands of red hair in her face and laughs. "Sorry if I'm being glum."

Nate shrugs. "Figured you had a reason."

She wonders if he is right. He seems so casual that he must believe it is ordinary teenage problems that are drilling holes in her head. And he is partially right. She is worried for what her father is doing. If he is doing anything that is considered breaking the law (it _is _Washington), but unlike Jean-Marie from Sociology, it is not embezzling she worries her father is doing. It is getting actual hurt by actual predators. Kelly knows that she shouldn't worry, her father can take care of himself, and even if he cannot, he has a team of X-men candidates having his back, one of them an extraordinary healer from Israel, but somebody has to worry, and she does it so easily.

_**(BREAK)**_

Aside from the cleaning ladies, Joshua usually finds himself the only person in _Classique _during the day where it has lost its nightly appeal. Rena sleeps, dead to the world, and he serves a few costumers at noon, but nobody important seeks out the club while Rena is gone. He is scheduled to visit _Orbit_ when he hears the door open, followed by a heavy argument. He immediately recognizes the wer who has recently arrived in town, harassing Rena about territory and making deals. She speaks with a Russian accent and orders Starry Nights when she is in the right mood. She seems to be on edge constantly and he doesn't blame her companion for getting bitchy about it.

The companion is the polar opposite of the brunette businesswoman. She is slender and lean but also incredibly young. Any other circumstances would have sent Joshua to her and have the bouncer escort her out, but it is off-hours and she has not ordered yet. Her locks and eyes shine treacherously golden, a trick of light for certain. She has clearly lost her patience. Glistening with anger, those golden eyes throw lightening bolts at her friend who either isn't aware or does not care. In fact, the brunette almost bored eyes the room, removing her gloves with an uptight attitude that Joshua isn't sure he likes.

The russian is the first to bring Joshua into conversation, sitting at one of their barstools and ordering a Martini. He eyes her, as if stating it is too early to drink, but brings it to her anyway. Rena seems to be interested in remaining peaceful, even though she is a wer. It is utterly against every policy she has previously had at _Classique. _It may be a scheme in the negotiations for territory with the leader of the local pack, Tony. He has never been in the night club, but sounds like a reasonable guy who is also a friend of Rena's protege, Abby.

"There," he says as he places the drink in front of her manicured hands. The teen sullenly sits next to her, a sour expression on her young face. She has scooped her hair quickly into a clip, wearing bootcut jeans, worn Converse shoes and a ruffled blue dress shirt with a leather jacket thrown over. Her australian accent surprises her.

"Ciara," she all but whines. "If you expect any word from Tony, you must tell me what's it about. He has a day job, you know."

The russian – Ciara – scoffs and sips her drink. "And if you continue to keep his place of employment from me, I will use other means, _shchenok_."

Obviously infuriated with the lack of proper responses, the teen bolts from the bar. "You know what, I've been playing this diplomat for two shitty days! You've given me nothing, haven't allowed me to sleep and now _this! _I give up, _suka!"_

She does a twist with her head and gingerly leaves the night, seeking elsewhere. The russian seems honestly surprised – or impressed – at the teen's russian vocabulary. Joshua has no idea what the words mean, but they both sounded accusatory and like foul language.

Surprisingly, less than an hour later, midday even, Abby shows up, hissing as she enters, keeping her hand – and options – on the door upon smelling something. Her normally blue eyes widen, and her natural defenses appear in the form of fangs. She sends Ciara a murderous expression, her nails digging deep into the flesh of her palms as she hastily crosses the room to sit down at the far end of the bar, trying to smile to Joshua through gritted teeth. She is obviously not comfortable, but the wer seems almost unaffected by the dhampir's presence. Interesting to say the least.

"The usual?" he tries casually.

"What is _she _doing here?" the youngling sneers, sends an apologetic glance at Joshua. She has drawn blood from her intense fisting.

He sighs. "I don't know. Came in here with a teen goldilocks who argued in russian," he relays as he serves her the usual, special-kept recipe of a Bloody Mary.

This peeks her interest, distracting her from the eye kill. "Yay tall, Australian accent?"

"Yeah, you know her?"

"A little. She is Tony's." Upon hearing her own words, she flusters. "Not like that. I mean, she runs with Tony. Wer, got attitude, but pretty."

He chuckles. "Coming from the person who is sending murderous expressions my patron's way?"

"I'm not saying we're BFFs, I am just stating that she is okay. Street-smart, knows more than she looks. I recommended this place," she says casually.

"You _do _know that it's illegal for minors to go clubbing and to serve 'em, right?" he says, but the dhampir is elsewhere, her eyes on the door instantly as Mr. Navarro makes his entrance. He carries mystic, Joshua will give him that, but experience has made him dislike him immensely. He is bad company, and the way her eyes light up at his presence frightens Joshua but also peeks his interest. Does she not feel the instant threat of his necromancy, his power over her?

He eavesdrops. He isn't supposed to, but he is a bartender. He wipes the desk with a towel and occupies himself in the background of their conversation. Call it occupational hazard.

"Abby."

"Dante." Pause. "I need your help."

Joshua rolls his eyes. Why is she feeding him arrogance? The necromancer reeks power but also finds uses for it, verbal or magical. To have Abby so boldly admit she needs his help – and what for, anyway? – will encourage the master of dark arts to be even more fed up on himself.

"I see," Dante acknowledges. "What for?" Disinterest is in his voice.

"I need to know about necromancers. And necromancy in general."

Said necromancer puts the glass down, studying it for long before facing Abby. "We don't like to advertise our weaknesses, if that's what you mean. And I normally demand wages," he clarifies, his tone sweeter than normally. Joshua keeps his eyes away, tries to focus elsewhere, like on Ciara the russian wer, but fails.

The dhampir looks desperate. She grabs for Dante's hands, causing him to eye her suspiciously. "It's for a friend. I know you have all this power over me, over the dead, but my friend needs you, Dante –."

"Unless your friend is dead, I cannot help him."

Abby looks shocked but bounces back. "_She _is in a coma, but someone from her past is a necromancer. I need to know if necromancers have any.. control over the affairs of the living," she says, choosing her words carefully.

Dante replies, with peeked curiosity. "Depends on the necromancer."  
>A breathless answer. "Ari Haswari."<p>

Joshua feels a deep settled satisfaction at Dante Navarro's startled expression. He chokes a chuckle, simply smiling into the bar, wishing that Rena was here to see it. The necromancer manages a smirk, too, like he knows something the dhampir doesn't, and slowly puts down the glass of whisky. "Haswari.. you're into deep trouble, Abby. Normally I'd like that."

"Why should I worry?"

"Well, you shouldn't, if he is properly detained in prison. Haswari is able to pull off most stunts – given the right circumstances, of course," Dante replies with a brilliant smile. "I haven't had the chance to work with him. Last I heard, he was immobilized magically. I don't comprehend why you'd think he was involved with your friend."

"Cut the crap, Dante, what's he capable of?"

"He is a recommendable necromancer, Abby, if that's what you're referring to. Kinda.. dark," the newcomer replies ambiguously, then rises to leave. The dhampir grabs his wrist and from the looks of it, the skin paling at her strength, it hurts, but all that ebbs from the necromancer is peeked curiosity and harmless surprise. Whatever he is trying to manipulate her to do, his powers over the dead does not seem to affect her. She looks up and meets his eyes with confusion at his expectation for her to magically stop what she is doing.

Joshua watches as Abby disentangles herself from Dante and lets him leave, following not too many moments later, eyeing the bartender as she dials a number on her cell. Whatever she came here for, despite Dante's ambiguousness, she got what she needed.

Working for a vampire really does expose him to the entangled webs of supernatural society, Joshua muses, polishing glasses for this evening.

_**(BREAK)**_

Tony has rarely ever been to the facilities they send the sentenced supernaturals. Sentenced is a loose term. Caught is more accurate, since the public juries do not know about the worlds and levels of paranormal accompanying them on the dark streets and in broad daylight. Everything they do has some sense of national security. If the public knew about the dangers of superhumans, they would freak, causing major panic and that alone could devastate cities all over America, not to mention when it hit the news broadcasts and the rest of the world, starting with Europe and South American, proceeding to Asia and Australia and ending with Antarctica. Panic, hoarding, cross-country paranoia and discrimination. Conspiracists everywhere would have a field day, politicians would never be trusted again, enforcing laws upon supernaturals to be treated like criminals.

From the outside, the Tatesboro Institute of Detainment and Education of Secured Specimens – TIDESS – looks like any state penitentiary. The fences are tall, chain-link with barbed wire, armed guards and metaphysical installments preventing convicts from trying to escape successfully. Few of those convicts are allowed in the fenced prison yards during the day; some in the night. A lot of staffers, but no-one susceptible to compulsion or magical manipulation. A whole coven is devoted to the protection of the public who lives near Tatesboro, their witches regularly renewing their binding spells and wards. Even some of the wardens are witches, few regular humans. You need security checks and clearance to get past the checkpoints. There are five before you even get out of the car.

Gibbs accompanies Tony on his way there. He appeared outside the hospital where the senior agent told him of Sister Margaret's estimations. He had grunted, then escorted him to the car. This was two hours ago, and they have been driving on the interstate for an hour before they break into traffic and hit a dirt road that leads to the maximum security penitentiary of the supernaturals that Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism brings the high courts. All you need is evidence that your perp has done it and it is an almost direct ticket to Tatesboro and TIDESS. It is placed in the outer edges of Maryland, and they drive for what seems like eternities between the checkpoints. Amongst the paperwork they have to show is Jethro's Hunter license (which intimidates Tony any other day, but he manages to play the casual card) and a DNA-test on himself, along with Jennifer Sheppard's signature that he is a "well-contained, behaved lycanthrope adjusted into society". They have registries on everybody who enters TIDESS, convicts, staff and NCIS agents.

Surprisingly, he doesn't get any demeaning glares from the marines and SEAL units who patrol the outposts. None of them are blissfully unaware of what they are guarding and keeping in. female or male, they are used to seeing every corner of supernaturalism. Vampires, wers, witches gone rogue, necromancers, animators, mutants – people who cannot be given a fair, public trial because of their elemental imbalance. By the time they reach the parking lot, he has shown his ID too many times to pack it back, stuffs it into his suit pocket as he leaves, trotting to Gibbs' side to keep up. He knows the drill: he cannot wolf out while he is here. It will be considered a hostile act. While an experimental facility of education, TIDESS is not a place where the rights of the convicts are blithely ignored. Secured for others' sakes – and their own – they belong in here. Nobody innocent is behind bars at Tatesboro. He gulps as he enters the large entrance, feeling paranoid all of a sudden. Will he be able to walk on the aisles of the cells and sense the presence of vampires without doing what's his nature? _For Ziva_, he reminds himself. He's here for Ziva.

The superintendent meets them with a solemn and professional demeanor, smiling sheepishly as he glances down himself and sees spots of yellow goo marring the perfectly good dress shirt. He apologizes and claims he had a particularly stubborn ghoul who insisted on starving in protest to the rules and regulations. Tatesboro would not bear witness to that kind of insubordination. For some reason, Tony found the claim odd, but followed the two men to the cell of one Ari Haswari. A name that had been dropped repeatedly in Ziva's Mossad personnel file. His file is entirely redtaped, but he himself is stranded by the Israeli government in the States. Tony and Gibbs have sent perpetrators there, but they deal with theirs a different way than the JAGs or the SEALs.

Trying to overhear the banging against bars, the despair of their shouts, the angry outbursts as they march by the rows of cells, Tony tries to imagine what Ari Haswari did to warrant a full-blown extended stay at TIDESS. That the records does not say, but their resident computer genius, McGee, is working on it. He did have the skills to pull off unsealing the records of parental files on Kenneth "Kenny" Larkin, former alpha of the Craven pack and Tony's half-brother, months previously. Tony trusts him to pull through for them.

Haswari's cell is not magical isolation because he does not have the magical powers to manipulate other inmates or staff. His powers as a necromancer only yields over the dead, harmless to the living when used directly. Indirectly, however, is another story and all the barriers the Arab is exposed to is sealed off with powerful magics rivaling his own. He has been here for months, but Tony does not remember ever hearing his name.

The cell is furnished and installed with a personal toilet, sink and mirror. No door between the makeshift bathroom, but there is a cot, a bookshelf fully with cramped books with worn backs, a chair made of softwood and an eerie atmosphere as the outer bars are removed, showing another row of bars that prevent the necromancer from walking about. A table has been pushed up against these frames, a chair been supplied as Mr Haswari already has one.

He is calm and composed despite having been supplied no details why they need to talk to him. The superintendent claims he has been cooperative once he heard the name of Gibbs. His hair is black, his skin dark olive and he has darker eyes than anybody Tony knows, including Ziva. His posture is casual but his attention undivided between them as he sends them a slick gaze, his eyes traveling over their bodies with a military precision, estimating his opponents. That is one of the reasons he has not been dragged to an interrogation room or a private room on base. He is dangerous because of his training which enables him to attack suddenly and without hesitation. This is not courts or trials, this is real paranormal activity. Gibbs makes no facial reaction to seeing Haswari, instead motioning for Tony to sit down across from the criminal.

"Agent Gibbs, Agent .. DiNozzo, was it?" The necromancer stares directly into his eyes.

"Yeah," Tony says, starting the interview. Gibbs stays afoot. "Ari Haswari. In for, what was it?" he bounces back with a thrill. Few likes to admit their own incompetence at being caught. Haswari looks like a man of pride.

"You know well if you're here."

"Actually, we are not here for you, but for any information you might give us," Tony tries casually, focusing at baiting the necromancer, who replies with a court nod and a smirk.

"What do you want, _wolf_?" Haswari scoffs, gritting teeth in obvious loathe. The wer can't help but growl, his eyes shining yellow and reflecting in the stainless bars.

Gibbs leans in, his weight against the steel bars, his face stern and dripping with impatience and power and quietly and darkly says two words: "Ziva David."

Haswari gives the slightest of squirms. Tony can see the barriers he is putting up. He thinks his mind is a fortress. They should have brought Ducky, the agent adds with a smile. He hopes these emotions do not show. Yet when the convict speaks, he has composed all emotions. "Yes, agent DiNozzo, what of her?"

"You're mentioned quite a lot in her file," Tony comments.

"Am I?" Haswari says, quite provocatively ignorant. His body language tells him nothing and he uses half-truths that Tony cannot pick up on. "Well, she is quite the officer."

"You worked together three times within the past two years. Remember her now?" Gibbs asks, watching from his place at the bars.

A confident smile appears on his lips. "Oh, you don't forget David. Or her father, for that matter." A skillful liar.

"Tell me about Ziva David's father, Haswari." Gibbs reveals no emotion in the casual way he namedrops Ziva.

"Director David is a great leader, Agent Gibbs, but he runs a tight ship, if you will. If you are researching her past, I am certain you have met the man."

Gibbs smiles forcedly. "I have not had the pleasure."

Echoing the received smile, Haswari is much more blunt in his satisfaction at their displeasure. Whoever Director David is – Tony has never spoken to Ziva about him, or her family much, except for the time where they spoke about siblings; her sister had died healing bomb victims when a second explosive went off, obliterating would-be survivors and assisting medical personnel on sight – he doesn't sound like a nice guy. He might be, factoring in Haswari's bias.

"Ziva David of the Mossad. You've worked with her, what's she like, what's her favorite color? What I am asking for is if anything happened to her that would have repercussions?"

Haswari swallows, dropping hints in an air of mystic. "There … might've been."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _As for Gibbs' wives: this is an AU version of NCIS. The second one hasn't happened. Also, she seems kinda psychotic (in the bad way) and seeing as in this fic, Shannon was killed in the 90s, I doubt Gibbs would have had the time to mourn and then proceed to marry three women in thirteen years. This unnamed wife seemed (#2) a bit like passion had been the factor, and Gibbs would have been a little more careful with a young daughter immediately after his wife's death. _

_The russian is from the internet. It means 'puppy' (what Ciara calls Tawny) and what Tawny says back, 'suka', means bitch. According to the internet. _

_I'm not quite satisfied with my Ari. How do you recall him?_


	16. Tales of Charon: Dirty Little Secret

**A/N:** Okay. It's shorter than I would have liked, but I started school this week, I'm distracted. Also, people don't comment the chapters as much.

**Disclaimer:** Listen, I don't claim to own it, okay? I don't own it.

* * *

><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<strong>

Chapter 8: **Dirty Little Secret**

Glancing across the Styx, the Israeli sighs, blinking tiredly. They have been seaside for hours, never passing any significant sightings besides submerged ports and ancient looking gates. Charon seems to know where they are going, but reveals nothing of their destination. Glimpses of the past are beginning to appear in Ziva's mind, but she does not trust these resurfaced memories. They bring back familiar things she wants to forget.

Earlier her gaze was rapturous, now it is not. She has never been good at keeping still, even her punishments didn't quench her desire to move, to be aware, to spy, to act on the first instincts. Her father has always smiled at her, stating that while she was not a particularly good guess at surveillance, she had the spark, the thrill and impulse of a killer. His eyes had gleamed then; now she wonders if he had spoken to an oracle about her future.

Ziva swallows hardly, gritting her teeth. Once she was like her sisters, like her mother, not what she pretends to be: a healer, a great healer, destined to become a physical and psychic healer of the temples. Her mother was a divine sight to see heal. It was truly awesome, truly mind-blowing and bone-tingling all the same. It does not come close to what Ziva does. She has the ability, the knowledge of copying her mother's actions, even the talent, but her soul is too frayed for the path of healers. She has been strayed by darkness, a constant factor that frightens her and makes her unable to fully embrace the profession. She cannot hold the faith required to be the healer her mother and sister was. She is tainted, tainted by the spirits of demons.

She remembers it faintly, like it is some unimportant event. She has found that the more she recalls it – not that she does it often, or wishes to, but in the past she has gone down the lane of memory to investigate what she could have done differently – the less she actually remembers with clarity. Ever since, her control and focus have been lacking.

_Haifa, 2000_

It is chaos, the manic sort of depressive chaos that threatens to envelop you and never loosen its hold. People swim by her in panic chaos, trying to help but their minds are horrified, terrified, terrorized with the expectations of their limited abilities. She stands herself, lost, trying to pick a victim amongst hundreds. She has lost track of her unit, they are as scattered as herself, but she feels it, the pain, the unbelievable pain and agony in the screams of the wounded. Dread fills her up, terrifies her as it does the rest, but she swallows and forces herself to be a healing force, not a useless one.

It does not take long to find a wounded. She could have simply knelt down, but the heartbeats flutter unlike the ones of their dead companions, some rapidly, others faintly, disappearing into death. She places her hands over the wound, a marring image of crimson with scorched edges, and it makes her sick; the smell of it – decay. The chest is rising violently, choking and panicking, rasping for air. She sends a wave of calm through the man, who looks at her as if he doesn't know if she is his savior or his death. She forgets his face and concentrates on his wounds. Psychically she can feel the wound healing, mentally, she can watch the muscles and organs repair along with the skin. By the time she is done, she is nauseous and dizzy, but the man will live.

She calls out for one of the combat engineers to take the man to a on-sight cot. He will need to rest. She stumbles backwards, fighting the physical discomfort, and seeks more injured; more to heal. She heals, within inches of her life, because it is exactly what these people need. She pushes her exhaustion to the limits of her consciousness, focusing on the jobs at hand.

Like a predator, she can sense injuries, weaknesses. Whether it is heart defects or wounds like these. The lives slipping away, some gruesome, others almost mercifully blissful. She passes bodies who will never walk again, people who are sobbing so violently that the engineers need to hold them back while the medics close their eyes for good. Relatives, families, friends, strangers. Many have died here today, but many will live, too.

She finds the girl, who has obviously dragged herself to lie against the ruins of the building. Smoke makes the Israeli cough, and presses tears in her eyes, but she knows that every life is sacred. If she cannot do this, she is useless. She reaches a point where she is not sure if the tears are from the tragedy of this event or the actual smoke. She also reaches a point where she does not care.

Unlike the man, and like some of the other she has wounded, the teen girl's chest rises as if any breath will be her last. She has scratches on both arms from when the building crashed down, but Ziva sees no physical injuries. She fears it is internal organ damage. Hemorrhaging. She casts a glance at her surroundings. Will the area hold, or will it come crashing down on her? Can she risk carrying the girl away? While she reaches for her ever-fainting powers of healing, she takes in the girl. Obviously a tourist, from her essence to her clothing. Her hair has been brushed harshly aside by smoke, wind and fire, leaving her skin both pale and as if smeared with ash and soot. Her chest rises unsteadily, the purple cardigan in pieces. She wears a dozen of rubber bands in all colors of the rainbow on her wrist. A defiant gesture with the top proclaiming _I'm with stupid, _it still makes her look so young. Ziva corrects herself, knowing that she is still herself a teen, but this girl looks so innocent with her straight blonde hair, fair skin, too slim frame and hazel eyes that border on golden. She is tall, but a late bloomer who has yet to mature into a woman's body. Her eyes are panicky, afraid, like a little child, and it does not fit with the denim shorts, sneakers and cardigan. No, she looks like she should be having fun with her girlfriends, or complain about her parents dragging her along for a vacation, instead she is here, nightmarishly afraid.

Ziva places her hands on her. She sends a wave of calmness through the girl, but it doesn't work. Trying to soothe her voice, she braces herself for disarray. "What is your name, _tateleh?_"

The girl's eyes blur and refocus, like she is slipping in and out of consciousness. Not good. Her eyes are begging her to go, all the while begging her to stay like she is not sure what she wants to do. "La-Lara," the girl stammers, surprised that her voice still functions. Her accent is american, and she cannot be more than fifteen. The unwavering look in her eyes tell Ziva that she knows she is going to die. Tears of compassion stream down her cheeks. "Y-Yours?"

"Ziva," she replies, searching for a wound to heal. She has been careless in her assessment of the damage. But she has only been healing en masse for a month. It is wearying her. Lara's eyes are clouding and her essence of life is fading. Her blonde hair, beautiful under other circumstances, was sweaty and she is covered in blood, dirt and sweat.

"Thanks, Ziva." Her eyes closes, and the Israeli cannot afford one moment's worth of hesitation. With all the power of her will, she lets her healing touch spill into the girl without reluctance. Tears mar her features as her hands, one clasped atop the other, press physically gently into the solar plexus of the american, psychically violently.

She chokes on a magic that's not her own. It shocks her, but instead of repelling her from the girl, it latches onto her, pulling her in while her amazement is too new. Her shields not prepared for battle, for defense, she is utterly helpless as the entity already claiming Lara breaks her down. She thinks she screams, but she cannot know for certain because if her magic are waves, this is an ocean coming crashing down on her, like decay claiming her body, her power, her magic hungrily without a hint of remorse. The smell is nauseous but the intention is made sure to Ziva, who has forgotten to breathe, to think in the harsh waves of black power taking her like a powerful tide one cannot fight back. It feels like her body is dropped in ice yet on fire, engulfed in a darkness that seeps through her body as were it paper, a dark, deep voice telling her that no matter how afraid she gets, he will cherish every drop of it...

_Present time, Styx_

Ziva coughs violently at the memory of the possession, shivering involuntarily to find Charon's mild gaze upon her body. She dons every piece of shield she has dropped, willing it not to overpower her. She lost once, she will not be taken aback again. Her exhausted eyes meet Charon's hazy orbs, and she meets understanding instead of puzzlement. Slowly, she takes the man's man and experiences a soothing calmness that seems utterly pleasant in comparison to its predecessor.

_**(BREAK)**_

The arabic man looks uncomfortable for a second before his unwavering confidence slides back. Tony almost growls displeased, but then Haswari begins to talk, his eyes somewhere between Gibbs and the wer.

"When Ziva was young, she was simply a healer. Of a powerful line, yes, but not as powerful as mine. Her mother's healer ancestry outweighed her potential as a necromancer," Ari stated calmly, taking in their reactions.

Tony's yellow eyes gleamed uncertainly, never losing their potential for danger. "Are you saying that she is a necromancer?"

"She could have been," the convict corrects. "I assume you are aware of how powerful a healer she is, or you wouldn't have come. Which means she is hurt. Beyond her own abilities."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Tony says, slipping back into the seat of the chair.

Haswari exhales and begins his tale. "Ziva used these healing powers to perform aid alongside emergency crews. She did well, until she didn't."

"Cut the cryptic, Haswari," Gibbs barks, keeping an inner beast at bay.

The eyes of the necromancer are clear as day. "She healed a supernatural victim. Not a victim of bombs, stabbing or accidents. No, a victim of a demon who was not done taking the feed."

Tony nods, even if it is news to him. Can demons even do that? He has never met one physically, but then again, few do. "What happened?"

"Healers are not religious, but must be in control of their abilities, channel them to an Order. That requires ritual cleansing and protection. After the attack, Ziva was no longer a healer. Not of a line, anyway, which lead her to a more human occupation."  
>"You are talking about Mossad," Gibbs grunts from his corner. The necromancer, surprised, impressed or amused, grins.<p>

"As I said, her father found uses for her. But even with her reluctance to use her arts, something had to be done," he says darkly and almost regrettably.

"You seem to know pretty much about her, Haswari," Tony comments, implying something he hates to do. But Ari is in too much control for a convict. He needs to be thrown off his game.

"I was a... family friend, for many years, Agent DiNozzo." The man finally looks at the wer. "If what I think is happening, you need to restore her chi. Have you any experience in necromancy, gentlemen?"

"No, but.."

"Then I propose we strike a deal, Agents." Now Haswari is looking at Gibbs, his eyes gleaming with contained excitement. A lethal thrill. "You need to summon death. The odor, the magics. It will require a necromancer as powerful as Ziva herself. I would gladly do it."

Tony scoffs. "Why would you do that?"

"She is a family friend. I might come off as a heartless bastard, but I am not without a heart."

Gibbs speaks: "You never deny to be a bastard, though."

This causes the necromancer to laugh heartily, but once he quietens himself, his eyes settle on the agents. "This is a one-time offer, Gibbs."

"What happened to her being a family friend?" Tony asks sarcastically.

"My time has its limits."

By now, the power in this room is bouncing off the walls, slithering against Tony's skin as he swallows nervously. Damn, he hates magicians. They move to leave the room, and Gibbs is already out the door by the time Tony hears Haswari speak. "And it's blue, her favorite color."

He halts and looks over his shoulder, then states matter-of-factly: "Actually, it's green."

Tony leaves and resists the urge to look back at the necromancer's surprised expression.

_**(BREAK)**_

Thanks to the rather private cubicle, Tim feels comfortably making this call. Over the years he has gotten to know a thing or two about NCIS and its assets. While his computer has come up with no hits on the lists of healers in North America, he feels compelled to do this. So the screen flickers before establishing a connection to the video link across the country.

Marty Deeks' smile resembles Tony's, the casual mischief and easygoing attitude that is a facade for hurt in the past. Whether Deeks carries the same darkness and angst inside him as Tony does Tim doesn't know, but according to friendship and his file, he is human, with the exception of being a psychic null. Most influences do not work on him. This is not why Tim is videoing him. No, Deeks is a coworker, that uncertain place between colleague and friend. Tim figures that since he has never actually worked with the blond-haired surfer, they must be friends.

"Tim, hey," the liaison greets casually. His hair is tousled as he styles it, beard scruffy. His eyes light up when he sees the ghost-talker.

"Deeks, great seeing you."

"It's been a long time. Whadd'ya need?" He has a surfer drawl, but it doesn't bother Tim. In fact, he finds his attitude inspiring. The D.C. team has been working like crazy and Tim can't remembers last he ate or slept.

"I need to ask about some of your contacts," McGee says, phrasing it carefully.

Deeks is naturally protective, but he only entered NCIS' radar a few years ago, working on a one-man unit alongside the policemen and policewomen of Los Angeles. While the D.C. team of NCIS focuses on investigation, the team in L.A. has been targeted with the assignment to infiltrate and register groups of supernaturals. It is more adapt and survive than investigate and arrest (terminate, sometimes).

Naturally suspicious, the surfer frowns. "What for?"

Tim explains the situation but finds himself unable to exactly describe the condition Ziva is in. He manages, because by the end of the perplex tale, his eyes are sympathetic. "Aw man, I'm sorry. I hope your agent gets better."

The MIT graduate doesn't bother to correct that she is an officer, not an agent. Partners are partners. "Which is why I need to ask if you know any healers on the west coast."

Deeks' boyish features fade and he looks like he is thinking hard for several seconds before replying. "I'll ask around, but if your healer is as strong as you describe, it'll take a good one to repair the damage she can't do on my own."

"I appreciate the gesture. Gibbs' wrath is something to avoid these last couple of days."

The LAPD detective smirks sheepishly. "Try me, my partner is part-fury, remember? I know all about it. I'll look, but I can't promise."

"Thanks, Deeks."

"You're welcome, McGee."

_**(BREAK)**_

After a short briefing when Tony and Gibbs return, looking rather glum (at least Tony does, with Gibbs it is always hard to tell), they all gather in the bullpen.

"Is it true, then? That Ziva's not a healer?" Abby asks.

"We've seen her heal. Of course she's a healer," Tony justifies but does not sound sure. He tightens his knuckles so he can see them ashen.

"Ari claimed that she is more than that. It could account for the metaphysical imbalance that Sister Margaret picked up on," Gibbs states.

"I don't know boss, he didn't exactly seem trustworthy," frets Tony.

"We need a necromancer. Haswari made a detailed record of what needed to be done. Problem is, they are rare," the ghost-talker declares.

Abby goes still next to them. She stops moving and quietens, her look a bit reluctant. "I may know somebody."

"Who?"

"Dante Navarro, he's new in town, but powerful."

Gibbs looks skeptic. His eyes are still on Abby, when he orders McGee to search for any records filed on the name NAVARRO, D.

"Even if we succeed summoning death," Tony looks uneasy. " –how will it save Ziva? I mean, it's all great in theory, but this is dark magic."

The group exchange solemn looks. It is McGee who speaks up. "I haven't been able to find any healers for Ziva. Yet."

"That decides it, doesn't it? Ziva would do it for any of us. It is necromancy, does anybody have a problem with that?" Abby asks, uncertain but a fire of determination burning in her bright eyes.

No one objects.

"Er, I don't know if it's relevant, given the other information you've, er, gathered, but Ziva was charged with murder in 2000."

"Murder?" Even Abby has widened her eyes.

"She worked for Mossad, Abbs," Tony argues, not quite comfortable with the sudden charge against Ziva. They are getting an awful lot of information on their teammate. If she gets back, she won't be happy about. When she gets back.

"The charge disappeared –."

"Probably Daddy Dearest's influence," Tony snarls.

"–but I have the name of the deceased. A fifteen-year-old american girl, Lara Emily Collins. The report states, according to Agent Lee, that Ziva was found across the girl's body. A medic's witness statement went that the girl had been fine prior to Ziva's aid."

"Bullshit," the wer declares openly. "Does that sound like Ziva? I know she is ninja assassin, but killing a teenage girl?"

"Does it say anywhere that she was something else than human? She might've been," Abby supplies. "We, nor Israel, didn't have registries back then. But Mossad operated on the assumption that anything possibly dangerous should be controlled."

They all think about the idea, but even Tony who is by far the most animalistic in the group, cannot believe this of Ziva. He has seen her with teens, awkward, sociable, in control.

"Abby, can you call Navarro?" Gibbs orders, making it a question. He does that out of urgency and out of his particular fondness with Abby. Tony has always thought it's because Abby and Kelly are more alike than one would think.

_**(BREAK)**_

Why does it always have to be midnight, Gibbs wonders as Grace and Tim light wax candles in the dark room of the office. Why they could not have done this elsewhere is beyond him, but by the elevator, a nervous Abby is hugging herself. He knows that it is not nervousness but more discomfort. Witchcraft has always bothered the dhampir. It crawls on your skin, and the dhampir keeps rubbing her bare forearms while she talks to the necromancer.

The augmenter has yet to decide if he trusts Dante Navarro. The moment he arrived, he seemed so sure of himself, but when he speaks to the dhampir, he is serious, solemn albeit a little flirtatious. Personally, Gibbs would rather keep him at an arm's length, but one of their own needs this, and dammit if he is going to comply with Ari's wishes.

He glances at his wolf, his senior agent who is watching almost impatiently. It has been days since Ziva walked the aisles of cubicles, a week since the case of the Clarkes hit them. Regrettably, the case has been transferred to Agent Cassidy's team, although they are all pretty certain that Ebony Pascal is responsible and currently unconscious in a hospital bed, though not in a state as deep as Ziva's coma. Of course, they are not here, nor is Ziva nor Ebony. If everything goes wrong, they may all suffer consequences. Gibbs admits that Navarro is powerful, but also charismatic and a bit arrogance for his liking. It all depends on him.

Abby excuses herself to Navarro and appears next to Jethro. She eyes Tony, who is guarding the room exasperatedly. "Why doesn't he remember?" she whispers.

"Dunno."

"He seems almost nervous, not frustrated as he was the last time he saw Ari."

Gibbs grits his teeth. "Last time, Ari did more damage than anyone has ever done. I knew he would blame himself, his anger almost intolerable. I recommended the memory be taken from him."

"You erased his memories of Ari?"

"To a degree, yeah. Imagine what would have happened if he saw Ari now, his wolf almost convulsing in him."

Abby looks sad but no longer accusatory. "I understand. Dante says we're ready soon."

With that, they begin the circle that Navarro has drawn, the sage burning in his nostrils. Abby hesitates, sitting down between Jethro and Tim, directly across from Navarro, who has Tony to his left, Grace to his right. Gibbs has Tony to his right, Abby to his left, who is clutching both him and Tim on her left, who is gentlemanly touching Grace's hand. The dog Tony claims to be Ziva's, Apache, softly pouts and lies down behind Tony as if accepting his new partner. Had it been any other day, Gibbs would have smiled at the fond gesture. Now, the beautiful dog's loyalty only reminds him further of the loss at their hands.

The incantations are long, swirly and tingling in all the weird places. Abby's hands tighten uncomfortably, and he sends her a reassuring nudge. They are dealing with powers over the dead, and she is part dead. Tim, along with Grace, is watching the ritual fascinated although he pales when the necromancer slices his palm and lets crimson blood drip into the silver cup. Tony looks lost, afraid and angry all the same. His eyes are still so yellow that they border on amber, like fires and desert rolled into one. He hopes his senior agent and wer can control himself and not lose it. He has shown remarkable recovery and progress with the pack. By Gibbs' knowledge – and the registry, Tony has forced his members to register at as a lycanthrope – there are not more than two dozen wers in D.C., most of them wolves. A huge part of them are wolves from the original Craven pack, but the rest are newcomers. Wers, who have yet to compose themselves enough to wander alone near the full moons.

An omniscient glow fills the room from the middle of the circle, radiating from the floor like the sun hidden behind an overcast sky; slowly, something starts materializing from the soft glow that turns into a bright light like the turn of a rusty faucet. Gibbs resists the urge to release his hold in Abby's hand and place it to cover his eyes, but knows that breaking the circle might release .. other things.

The glow flares, visually incinerating the people across from him in brightness – Navarro, Grace and half of McGee, – blinding him physically but not metaphysically, where every vibe around him is itching with the use of magic, something almost alive flowing thickly between each of the participating links of the chain like a fat snake of ambient light just below and above the skin, a sensation truly nauseating. He knows even not trying that it will not be possible for them to break the binding spell. It interrupts the steady flow of strength Gibbs is sending Tony's way. His powers as an augmenter is helping his wer both physically and mentally, and he'll need it.

Something materializes, and at first, he is not sure what it is, but as the light fades to a dim brightness, a large cloaked entity stands solemnly still in their midsts. He cannot see the reactions of his people, but senses Abby's unease. It is mighty, at least seven feet tall, and levitates off the ground, fog and mist appearing out of nowhere, ebbing from the entity's large, worn velvety cloak with a deep hood that covers the darkness. It turns around, testing its boundaries but as if finding shackles on its limbs, it stirs, enraged before it settles.

Its voice is raspy and hoarse like its mouth is not meant for speaking. "_Dante Navarro.._" it threatens, annoyed.

If he feels threatened, the necromancer doesn't show it. He responds, "I called you forth, I hold you and bind you to this circle by my blood."

"_By your blood_," the entity mimics sardonically like a wronged five-year-old. It unhinges its shoulders, shrugging tiredly and disrespectfully. It looks – through the fabric of the hood – at each link in the circle. Then it begins its introduction. "In Ireland, I am known as Morrigan. In Norse mythology, I am Hel. According to Slavic belief, I am Marzanna, or Morana. To you, I will be Death."

A wave, or energy, shoots through the circle and raises hairs on his arms. The woman – not female, nor male, but definitely introduced as a female. Only now does it strike him that she, it looks like the grim reaper. It has no hands to hold a scythe, just long sleeves that end off the limb, suggesting there is a limb, but revealing nothing. Death is utterly proud, it seems. It looks at Navarro for a long time, as if taking an artistic pause, then proclaims: "You always did annoy me, necromancer."

This time it is more of a human voice, impersonating one, but the chill it brings assures him that it is beyond human, or perhaps not even human. It doesn't bother pretending to any of them.

"_Muerte, _I will not listen to this nonsense," Navarro says with a calm voice that carries a strain. He is lending power from all of them, but not exactly the same method Gibbs uses. He tries to think of something else and keep the flow steady. He is not easily intimidated, at least not by Death, but with a mental smirk, he thinks of his first meeting with a certain sylph, back when he thought her human and tough with no idea of what went bump in the night. Little did he know that he'd be meeting her, totally disheveled in tears, stubbornness and riot, two years later. That was seven years ago. Things have changed, and so has he.

Death looks defiant, if even possible and loses the hood. A unisex face shows, feminine but indeterminable once you have stared at it for a while. Thick, silvery strands flow down the velvet cloak, originating from a face so pale he almost mistakes it for a vampire. But no, she is hollow, beyond feelings, beyond thirsts, but apparently not beyond pride and annoyance. She is old, but has a young face - all tricks. "What do you wish to know?"

The voice is almost male, silky as if trying to behave. Navarro does not bite. "Zivyah David."

Death looks puzzled, but then knits its brows, trying to figure out the sudden interest. Oh no, Gibbs thinks, leverage. "I know the name," the entity forcedly admits.

"She is on the verge of death," the necromancer says, "but you know that."

"She is not. I cannot claim her soul. I thought someone like you were responsible."

Silence. Seeing a mutual opponent, Death looks sullen like a teen – which triggers a memory of Kelly at age thirteen – so Navarro speaks. "How do we free her? If she stays like this, you cannot have her. And you sense her power. Don't pretend you don't."

"Oh, Dante, you have no idea of this power," Death implies wickedly, "but you are right, my servant, she is struck." It grimaces, so humanly but its face is not made for it, it is an illusion of humanity.

"Who?" Tony asks, catching the attention of Death, who glares his way, annoyed then entranced.

"You..," she says, moving, her voice once female, silky, tempting, as she stretches her cloaked hand, as if reading his aura and seeing something she likes. "I feel her through you."

The wer pales, but manages to cover his reaction up. He opens his mouth to speak – admit or defend, Gibbs does not know, – but Death interrupts.

"Such a lovely bond. I understand, servant, what you want me to do. For this, I might agree," Death says, again cruelly inhuman.

"You know where she is. This séance is as much for her as for you."

Dismay and excitement mar the pretty features of the human face Death has chosen as its host. "As you command, master."

_**(BREAK)**_

"You look troubled, Ziva."

"My past," she swallows, too focused on the water. "It haunts me."

"Does it not haunt every one of us? Everyone must face it, dear," Charon almost chuckles, his expression serious and so wise.

Ziva, still haunted by the memory of Abaddon's possession, tries to calm herself with breathing exercises, but finds her heart racing from the terror of the reminder. A secret part of her takes great pleasure in evoking the thrill of terror in her, the other parts fight it. She knows this, carries it, the tainting forever remainder of her survival at the hands on the demon. Never before has she been able to quench his thirst for terror and banish him fully from her mind, his venom racing in her blood, intwined with her healing touch and magic, its potential huge and lethal. He left her mind after the attack in Haifa, but his essence never did.

And she does not wish to face a greater demon. Abaddon is like the personification of nightmares. She can face master vampires, alpha wers, renegade ghouls and scorned witches, but not what she carries in her like a thin thread in her DNA. She has tried countless ways to banish him, to quieten the spirit he left in her with tribal brands, silver markings, tattoos of holy symbols, but it is there, always. She has always referred to it in her mind as being metaphysically schizophrenic, but it is more than that. She still remembers the sound of her own bones cacking, the sickening suffocation of magic that his actual presence brought forth. He punished her with satisfaction, for trying to free a victim of his. Worse yet, the courts blamed her at the trials for the murder of Lara Collins. Thanks to its discretion, her father was able to make her disappear into Mossad, but his favor did not free her.

So now she looks at Charon, longing for freedom and carelessness.

* * *

><p><strong>REVIEWS? Requests? Answers?<strong>


	17. Tales of Charon: Wings of An Angel

**A/N: **Thanks for all the lovely reviews. If it wasn't obvious, Ari is Ziva's "family friend", aka brother, but Eli's bloodline is necromancy, Ziva's mother's line is healing, and since she is female, the healing touch outdoes the necromancy.

I've started pre-IB! It's AWESOME! I've never felt more at home than with my new class mates. Let's see how long that lasts. Also, this happens to (may) be the last chapter of Tales of Charon! I am not totally satisfied, but I think it sums up the stories.

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own NCIS or any of its characters or any other things that may be recognizable.**

* * *

><p><strong>Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon<strong>

**Chapter 9: **Wings of An Angel

* * *

><p>Everything shatters. The real world, that is. To Tony, Death's glow intensifies until he sees the trademark purplish glow that represents Ziva. He can even smell the fresh scent of coconut and vanilla shampoo she uses, and her natural almost olive scent. He knows that his eyes glow yellow, but the vision of his partner looks pale and disoriented, almost confused.<p>

When he speaks, he doesn't feel his lips move. Whatever ritual this is, he feels weird, but the need to see his partner is greater than the shit magic Dante Navarro is using. Frankly, after seeing Haswari, he doesn't trust necromancy. A pang hits him, because Ziva can be a necromancer as well. Except she is not, she is a healer. Everything he knew is falling apart.

"_Ziva? Oh, god, Ziva._" He hates the desperation in his voice, but seeing her okay, alive, conscious, it makes him all the more unclear on what is real and what is not. This Ziva is not tainted by the sterile smell of hospital and medicine. He can feel it in his bones, his wolf can smell it, and he resists the urge to rub that sweet scent into his skin.

"_Tony?_" She turns around, facing him – wherever he is – and knits her brows. She is sitting in some kind of boat, but the edges of the vision is faded, blurry, like he is looking through the eyes of a drowning human.

"_Are you alright_?" he asks, worriedly.

"_What is this, Tony, how could you do this?_"

Something he cannot see from this séance talks to her, stealing her attention. She nods solemnly, harshly to someone out of view, and looks back at him seriously. "_You are using necromancy?_"

He almost cringes at the disbelief in her voice. It is a faint echo of what he forecasted by peeling her past. She sounds almost offended.

"_Ebony linked you and her together_."

If he hadn't know her better, he would have accused her of sobbing. "_I know_."

"_Gibbs shot Ebony, Zee,_" he solemnly explains, trying to brace himself for the reaction.

She pauses, looks not sad but figuring it out, the consequences. She is calm, calmer than he would have been. Did she know that already?

"_That I did not know_," she admits, "_but it explains this. How are you doing this, Tony? Necromancy is not to be taken lightly. If I am dead, then –._

He protests almost angrily. "_You are not, Zee. I saw you today. Your heart still beats. And to me, that's alive._"

His heart skips a beat when his inner Wer reaches for her almost possessively, but howls once it is unable to touch her.

"_What is that?_" she asks, quietly, feeling it, too. That is a first.

"_My wolf._"

She looks worried, "_Is it close to the full moon? There is almost two weeks until –._"

"_You have been in a coma for a week, Zee_," Tony downheartedly informs her.

There is an awkward silence that falls between them. He studies her, how pale she looks, almost lifeless had it not been for her eyes. Her eyes, so passionate, so moving, so alive, so Ziva. The chocolate brown bordering on hazel whenever she gets really anxious.

Something happens. She looks confused, then begins to explain. "_I feel you. Your heartbeat, the __stress, every vibe of exhaustion. Like when I heal. Why is that?_"

"_I don't know. But you're not healing, Zee, so I need you to make an effort, okay, do it, for me, for the team, alright? Do it –_."

And then she is gone. In front of him, watching him fall apart, sit Grace, Dante, Abby, Tim and Gibbs in a circle. Apache is sniffing at his sleeve, wagging his tail as if smelling Ziva on him. It almost kills him to devastate the dog like that, but it kills him to face his team. "I lost her."

* * *

><p>Ziva feels Tony fading and wonders if her sanity is slipping. Charon seems aware of what is going on, yet distracted her from the answers. To her amazement, she is not dead. How can she be on the Styx and not be dead? However, she may be dying. Thanks to the voodoo ritual binding her to their suspect – and thinking about Ebony's creepy, nauseating magic makes her tremble all over although not with the same aggression and terror as the memories of Abaddon – she is injured. She trusts her team, her boss, her partner, her friends, to help her before it's too late. But the desperation and despair in her partner's voice nearly crush her. She is not losing hope, but she hopes that she will be saved soon, if not for herself then for Tony's sanity. He sounded like he had been looking for cures for weeks. Days. How much time has it been? Even if she had a watch, she would not rely on it.<p>

Time is different when it comes to magic. There are even such things as time warpers, beings capable of traveling through and distorting time, but only the truly powerful can intervene with time itself. Less powerful ones offer tours as guides. It is not fully illegal nor is it fully legal, as it requires manipulating the passenger which is forbidden by law, but also against the health regulations (the ones accessible to the public) and considered inadvisable to repeat. Twisting time and space requires more energy then healing, so Ziva has never studied it, only read the required articles during her time as Mossad and now at NCIS. It is mandatory to keep up with updates on the nocturnal and daily species of the job. Visiting the Netherworld, however, was not one of the options she had joining the bureau.

Maybe it is due to her ancestry and parentage; her brother is one of the most powerful necromancers in the Middle East, perhaps even in the world, seeing as there are few left, but she has always possessed her mother's healing touch. She has never raised zombies or had any control over the dead during her childhood or her teens. However, the imprint that Abaddon left on her aura and metaphysical body changed that fact. From the death of Lara Collins and to the time in Mossad, during which she distanced herself from any sorts of magic, relying on the training the IDF had given her, she discovered awakening abilities. She has yet to tests its limits, but she has a cruel gut feeling that his essence may have somehow awakened her father's necromancy. She has received training alongside Ari; when Eli hoped that she inherit his abilities and control, but her mother's genes won (if genetics are even to blame, it seems like a game of fate) and she became a healer. After Abaddon, she was neither. Both. A magical vessel without label.

And she hides this from people at work; it is part of her past, a part of the present, and she is yet to see a future without it. The horrible course of a tainted life essence. She carries on a demonic presence into the world, and if there is anything she remembers from her childhood, it is that everything has repercussions and consequences.

She looks at Charon, the infamous boatman who is so often belittled in literature. His oar in hand, his arms weathered and strong, face hidden in a shroud of worn clothes, he seems so calm, so quiet. Multilingual – English and Hebrew, at the least – and yet so futile in his ways. She has to look away, because she draws parallels between their stories. Once upon a time she could have seen herself settling down, having kids. Her parents even encouraged it. Many things were lost in the battle of her and the greater demon, and she is not sure that she came out winning. Her soul is forever frayed at the edges, her aura unique, her magical abilities untested and unstable. Does that sound like something to expose a child to? No. Besides, she is Mossad, an officer of the Institute.

She came here, to America, for the first time to control Ari; she begged him to stop, to undo the horror. But he laughed her off, even with regret in his eyes, the love for her hidden behind the layers their father taught them to dissect. She could not convince him to do what she asked, his pride or arrogance getting in the way. Ziva had suspected incompetence; perhaps her brother had finally bitten down on more than he could chew. Not that he would ever admit that. If he is a sin, it is pride. She should know, having spent her life with him the days she was not with her mother and Talia.

She glances once more across the river, sees the waves of misery and despair, almost making out faces in the body of water. She is no longer unsettled, but wonders if her victims are here, forever stuck and awaiting to drown her once more.

"Why do you think you are here, healer?"

Suddenly, the kind elder man's voice has turned harsh, bordering on cruel. She looks at him, startled, confused, waiting for him to explain himself, seeing no reason in his sudden change of tone, but meets only the sight of Charon.

"On the Styx, m'dear," he clarifies and his voice has changed, distorted into an accent. If possible, he is changing before her eyes. But why should he? She has felt no change, magical or otherwise.

"I suppose I am dead," she replies and it takes her effort to acknowledge the fact. "Except I am not, am I?"

He chuckles, a mean laughter that causes her physical discomfort. "Clever, _ma guérisseuse__. _I wondered how long I could fool you. Your spirit is stronger. _Ma servante _has done too much."

Somehow, he manages to caress her face almost lovingly, but she strays from his touch. His shroud of a cloth falls down, revealing darkening skin and a white-pained face that looks like a skull. She backs down immediately, creating as much open space between her and Charon. Or rather, the imposer. If Charon is real, if any of this is real, this is not him.

The man grows younger before her eyes, and she wonders briefly if he is a polymorph, a shapeshifter. But when he sheds the dirty clothes to reveal almost a tuxedo-like outfit. Although startled, she is not frightened and she has enough flippancy to bounce back. "Where is the top hat, baron?"

The voodoo loa of resurrection laughs heartedly. Amused. He steps closer and she is ready to pounce. Every piece of trust they have established during their time here – Tony said it has been a week – is shattered and she is back to her old ways. There is a reason why she left the services of Baron Samedi. Dealing with magic is one thing, needing a protector is another, but when the Baron asked more of her than she felt comfortable giving, she broke all ties. Or so she thought.

"As I said, spirit, _ma enfante_. I apologize for the circumstances of which we meet," the charming loa says and extends his power. Now where he is not hiding it anymore, her skin tingles with the magics. "Or should I say, reunite?"

Once upon a time, she found him charming, his embrace comforting after nights of uncertainty and fearfulness for what Abaddon left in her, his attention for her almost addictive. She was young then, but curious about her newfound powers. Foolishly naïve to think that he would not demand anything in return for gifting her with certainty. Even now, years of separation later, her aura still longs to touch his like a beast on its own accord.

He is like a lover of magic, a heart flutter she cannot control. "You are not sorry, Samedi. Remember, I know you."

"Personally, I might add," he teases almost flamboyantly. She focuses not on his behavior but on the white cotton pads in his nostrils, flaring up against his dark skin. He is as she remembers, but so much more. Maybe it is because she mistook him for Charon, a kind-hearted traveler, a fellow cursed one. But no, Baron Samedi, Haitian loa of the dead and of the healed, is rather self-absorbed. She has sworn not to fall into his trap again, but these past days and the conversation with Tony has left her bare, raw. Pretenses have fallen as well.

For the first time since reaching this netherworld – whether it is the Styx or an illusion is indeterminable – she collects her power from the place in her mind, summons it from her mind and her heart, while her eyes, now onyx-colored, cast a gaze in the direction of the _collier_, the necklace Ebony gave her as a morbid initiation gift. She knows now that the entire case has been his scheme all along, Ebony his servant. She is just a tool, Ziva the prize. The case races back to her. The murder of the Clarkes, the ritual, the summoning of Baron Samedi, even the voodoo binding ritual that Ebony cast on her. Did the Baron have anything to do with Gibbs shooting Ebony, too? He couldn't possibly have known.

Startled with realization, she staggers, but recovers quickly and fights back with waves of her own magic. Healing magic, demonic magic, necromancy touched deep inside her. Suddenly, she sees Ari in his cell, looking up at her, his facial expression surprised but worried. She almost frowns with her eyes closed, never having seen that expression before. Maybe once, when he taught her to drive.

"_Ziva, tateleh, ken!_" He turns eager, and she feels his power like never before. Then again, she is dead, isn't she? Does his magic not wield over her? But instead of responding, she taps into that power, uses it to reenforce the shields of magics and the waves come crashing down, but instead of succumbing, she masters them like never before. Wind blows on her face and by recollection, she smells sea water, but is brought back from the memory by Ari.

"_Ze be'seder_," he says, _you're welcome, _and she feels an emotional pang hit her, but it is a drop in the oceans of magical concentration. She opens her eyes to see Baron Samedi, and reunion with her brother is no longer a first priority.

She is not overcome by rage, revenge or even anger, but survival – one of the things, she does the best – and stretches her magic and her physical body at the baron. Slowly, but securely, she creates a web she would not enter herself, and he struggles against her, his touch burning unto her skin, but she doesn't let go, not even when the fire reaches her muscles. She cries out and fights back, physically paralyzed and pressed against the bottom of the boat. Out of the appreciation for her current life, of the faces she has been accustomed to seeing each day, she convulses on magic, choking him long enough to gain the upper hand, but he latches onto her, bringing her down with him as she throws him into the soulful waters of the Styx that embrace them both with eager hands.

* * *

><p>As a man whose description often begins with tales, Donald Mallard has very little comfort to offer in this case. Hours ago, the team stormed out of here, and he is only there for support. The autopsies have been done and the reports have been filed on the behalves of Madison and Shane Clarke. Their memories are flimsy and so are their minds, and anything he and Timothy have been able to pull is knowledge confirming what they already know.<p>

Ducky, who pays respect to the dead, rarely lets himself get involved in a case. He always sympathizes with the victims and the grieving families, but this case is particularly hard for an old man's heart. He finds himself looking back at all the times where young Miss David came to him, simply for a talk and a cup of tea. She is a great listener, although he knows that she, like many others, does not always pay attention to every detail. She listens more wholeheartedly than most, and he has strayed her mind and understands why she might find comfort in hearing the stories of others rather than sharing herself. Now, he feels guilty at not probing more; perhaps the Israeli might have been saved.

He has not given up on their liaison. His battle is done, his only expertise used. For once, it is not the _who _and _how _that are left unsolved, but the why, and Ducky can only do as much. But he watches the group with an almost grandfatherly fondness. Jethro and Jenny always amused him, but the unit at NCIS is family in a sense of mutual grief and peculiarity. He alone knows the burdens of the people here who roam these hallways, protected by the law and the agency, feeling perhaps the closest thing to safe they have felt for years. So as he sits by his desk, across from the room he knows the best, his assistant actually in his assigned division in the Harbingers Lounge, wondering how much of his sympathy is telepathically obtained and how much is due to his background of psychological training.

The doors slide open, alerting him to a fellow presence, but he does not move. There have never been incidents down here when he has been alone, and it is too early for somebody to take notice; the footsteps are a given, and for a moment he thinks of Jenny, but then the heels do not click against the floor and he opens his mind and his ability to recognize the worry and well-meaning Kendra Scuito.

"Ms Scuito," he greets, a genuine smile bestowing his lips although he still feels the sadness in his eyes. He reminds himself that he shouldn't worry; Ziva is family, and the team would die trying to save her – which only further expands his worry.

"Ducky," she breathes, and he must admit, she is a vision. Starting wrinkles mar her face with grace, her auburn hair collected in a bun, showing her age in these early rays of morning. She is not as tall as her daughter, implying her father was, and thinking of it makes the old doctor sadder.

Kendra shows no evidence of what happened to her all those years ago. He still remembers the day clearly, even if it is twenty-six years ago, when she came to him, heavily pregnant with something that might not be human.

"She is worried, Ducky," the woman says softly, and he knows who she is referring to. Her eyes reflect in the glasses she wears, her accent burning through.

"She should be, Kendra. Her friend is in the hospital. I am sorry this collides with your visit. The truth is, had you visited another week, this might have happened to somebody else. Ziva, the woman Abby worries about, is being helped as we speak. I am sure of it," he attempts.

Her shoulders tense in frustration all the while she remains softspoken. "This is all so serious. It makes me wonder how often you get hurt," the Louisianan resident says, her eyes staring into his.

"Do not count them, Ms Scuito, but Abigail is in safe hands, I assure you."

"That's not what I doubt, Ducky. I've seen my daughter's worry and concern for this Ziva. I hope she will get better. They're all working hard, aren't they?"

He cannot lie to someone so peaceful and strong as Kendra, the woman who raised a dhampir into the lovely Abigail Scuito, so he chooses his word honestly. "They are. And they will find a cure, even if it takes them weeks or months. Incriminating past withstanding," he adds with a smile.

She returns his, a pale version of the real thing. "Someday I'd like to meet this Ziva. She seems important to Abby."

"She is important to all of us, Kendra."

* * *

><p>The moment Tawny steps out of the shelter, rubbing her fingerless mittens, she smells it and halts. The touch of ice, even ice has a smell, the musk scent of wolf and the intensity in the air. For less than a second, she mistakes it for being her packmaster, her alpha, but the chilling sensation is not accompanied by a feeling of warmth, of family, of pack. Therefore, she is unsurprised when Ciara steps into her path on the pavement. Her eyes dart for Tony in the crowds behind the Russian, but he is not here yet. He called twenty minutes ago, finally realizing his rudeness for the past week. After hearing his explanation and sensing the frustration and desperation in his voice, she can understand.<p>

It frightens her how much she cares. Six months ago, she would not have cared if Ziva lived or died. She is human, not pack, but Tawny admires the healer in ways not possible for her those months ago. Larkin would have never brought a human into the close-knitted community of the pack. While Ziva is not involved, she is a part of Tony's life that is equal to pack status. Tony trusts her, so Tawny must, too. She does not wish for anything bad to happen to Ziva.

Ciara wastes no time making her position known. The waves of dominance flow through the air, almost causing Tawny to whimper, but she stands strong, finally knowing what this visit is about and why Rena so eagerly played nice with the Russian wer. Politics. Alliances.

She growls under her breath and watches as their circle one another subtly. The shelter is in _that _part of town, the one that is not frequented by users of the police force. Passersby rarely care if somebody gets into a fight, even encourages it if the participants are female. It won't be Tawny's first streetfight, nor her first fight in a pack, but her skin crawls with anticipation and fear, uncertainty and experience. First of all, she has no idea how Ciara fights and what her signals are. She knows her eyes now sparkle goldenly in the sun, the predator in her lycanthropy longing for release. It has disliked Ciara's presence for the last week, immensely so, and itches for a mark, a target, a prey. It cannot do that as long as Ciara is playing submit-to-me.

She throws her own wave of dominance in the Russian's direction and is astounded when the wer physically staggers, surprise on her face. _Ain't my first rodeo, girl._ Her fists burn with anger, bloodthirst, primal excitement.

Ciara wants to lead the pack. Wants to lead her.

Under Larkin's command, she might have subjected to such dominance. But she recognizes that flash of meanness in Ciara's eyes, and it is goddamn poetic.

Transforming into wolf is something she has done easily since she was able at the age of five. Back then, it was a cub the size of an average wolf, lanky, waif-like, but with jaws and claws able to make anyone howl during the next moon. She has felt the moon's presence like a prickly sensation, and given into it like the others of her packs – because she has had plenty of those since she ran away – but her powers lie within, hidden beneath the surface to trick narrowminded people like Ciara.

She growls and feels that power surface. Brewing, boiling, the inner Wer unleashed. Unlike Tony, who chains up his beast until the full moon rises, her beast is more reasonable, less contained. She has always had a level of control, a level of understanding with the beast within her lycanthropy. She has not had to undergo the transitions to become a wer; no, she has always been one. The nature of the wolf comes to her easier than to the one of humans.

Ciara looks confused, but replies with her own wave of power. She growls, her face distorted in anger and wrath. Tawny can feel her wolf taking over long time before her features grow animalistic. Her voice is throaty like her vocal chords have been altered to fit the one of a wolf. "You are no-one, how dare you to defy me?"

"You're wrong, Ciara," Tawny bounces back, stepping towards her as she intensifies her scent. "I am someone. Someone you should have listened to instead of ignoring!"

The anger of being second-guessed at each action, throughly ignored and ultimately defied hits Tawny and gives her the strength to show Ciara how low in the hierarchy she truly is on American soil. Don't kick a sleeping dog. Do not underestimate a friendly wolf. At some point, Tawny stops concealing her true nature and this causes Ciara to widen her eyes in realization at her own underestimation, but by then it is too late, and she crumbles to her knees.

The street is now abandoned. Tawny can feel her beat edging for release, her pride at Ciara whimpering at her feet, but then she is distracted by the scent of her alpha, the comfort, the warmth, the certainty. She steps back reluctantly as he makes his way there. He looks horrible, like he hasn't slept for days.

"Lupa," Ciara gasps, clutching her hand to her heart. Then she directs her attention unto Tony. "You are Alpha."

"Yes," he says unsurely. He sends a gaze her way. "This is the wer you told me about?"

Tawny nods. "I just showed her her rightful place. She completely ignored any code of honor during her stay and severely underestimated her surroundings."

"I came here under the pretense that you did not have a mate, Alpha," Ciara whimpers, "but I was clearly wrong. You have a lupa, and in your heart, a mate," she snickers.

Tony looks confused to Tawny for answers, but she only nods. She has little understanding of it herself, but she just might've declared herself lupa, alpha female. What she is saying about hearts is confusing for her, too, but if Tony asks for explanation, she will do her best, or blame it on him being gone for a week.

The golden-eyed wer looks at her alpha with a newfound understanding. Has she just moved up the ladder and become lupa in Tony's pack? Shirley was lupa alongside Larkin, but that pack was screwed up before she got there. As she sees the hurt in his eyes, she realizes something different about him, about the one in his heart being his mate.

And as they leave, she swears to herself she will never reveal her interpretation.

* * *

><p>Tim sighs for the umpteenth time this evening. He swallows, fists his hands and loosens up on his shoulders, but nothing eases the tension he feels. Gibbs is coming, but that is not why he is nervous – for the lack of better word. Well, nervous describes him pretty well. Three nurses have glanced his way since he arrived and one even dared to ask him if he was alright. Unlike Gibbs and Tony, he didn't sneer but politely dismissed their questions. They do not seem convinced that he is a hundred per cent alright.<p>

What he is doing is so far out an idea that it might actually work. Even in his novelist mind, that sounds uncertain. He writes fiction when he has the time. What is ironic is that his novels – novel, more like it, as it seems like his second work is getting nowhere – are more realistic than his work. Sometimes it is work that seems fictitious and the portrayed life more real, but he finds comfort in resorting into the characters of Deep Six. Abby is the only one on the team who knows about his hobby. It is not that he earns a lot – his story is one crime novel amongst hundreds – but he manages; he can imagine the nicknames he'd earn from Tony if he tells him that he is a writer, an author. And now certainly is not the time.

He exhales once more. He can see Ziva's pale face from the corner of the room and feels like he is intruding. Ziva has always been a private person when it concerns herself. She even respects people's privacy – sometimes, when her and Tony don't team up. No, her air of mystery, now revealed as murder charges, a past of psychological warfare and what is worse, is dissolved into questions and mistrust. He cannot help but wonder if he really knows the easygoing healer or if that is what she wants him to think. And he hates himself for it. For doubting her.

Tim's idea sounds stupid and farfetched when he explains it. But Gibbs' look was desperate enough to say "go for it", and so he did. This is why he is occasionally roaming the hallways, checking when his guest will arrive. If this doesn't work, they will have to expand their search to Asia and Europe. It turns out that healers who require healing needs to be healed by just as powerful a healer as they are themselves. After Ari's revelation (the thought disgusts Tim, trusting Ari Haswari for information!), there are not a whole lot of them lying around willing to risking their chi for a stranger. To have a remainder of an attack attached to your aura forever must be frustrating, limiting.

Distracted with the beeping of the machines that watch over Ziva, he doesn't hear her approach. "I'm ready, McGee."

He wets his lips. "I don't know if it'll work. Do you want to try?" he almost begs, and he sees emotions cross her face.

Her brown eyes land on Ziva, who lies still in the bed. The cloak reaches her ankles and leave any clothes up to the imagination, but her skin is as pale and the outfit reminds him of Death. "She is not to blame for what happened."

"Okay," he says, nodding to her.

She steps closer, examining the Israeli but seemingly also studying her. He knows it is painful for her, but the longer Ziva stays caged in whatever metaphysical prison, the more odds are that she will not come out. And Tim sees what it is doing to the team, to Gibbs, to Tony, to Ducky, to himself, to Abby even. "And you understand what's happening?" he tentatively asks.

She nods, wiping away tears she doesn't let him see. "I do. This is not my first rodeo, Timmy."

And with that statement, with that trademark grin, she places her hands just above the Israeli's chest, like he has seen Ziva do so many times, except this is more of a metaphysical healing than the physical one. She is trying to heal that aura to break the spell. Ebony is recovering, having been healed by one of the Sisters of a local coven. She is not yet conscious, but the nurses claim she will wake in a few days. Personally, Tim may be ready for her not to wake up, but he knows that's a horrible thought. He claims sleep deprivation and temporary insanity.

For some reason, he is glad that Tony is not here and Gibbs is yet to arrive. It gives him a chance to see the healer work, notice the soft expression and light tension in her cupid's bow. A soft glow ignites between the women and he doesn't know whether to cry or laugh. The healer does not stumble once she is done, but she looks exhausted. Ziva is not awake, but the brain waves on the monitor change, increasing. The glow from her hands fade and she turns her head in his direction just as Gibbs steps through the door. He eyes her, unsurprised with a glint in his eyes, a resurfacing sadness.

She composes herself and moves to leave. "You owe me," Kate whispers as she leaves the hospital room. And Tim pretends not to see the grief in Gibbs' eyes. If he hadn't had a witch enchant him, he could've been ignorant to the ghost's presence. But no, he chooses to share the burden that is Tim's.

And so Ziva wakes.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I lent the word lupa from the Latin phrase and the** Anita Blake** series. There are several appetizers in this chapter, Ducky and Kendra's past being one of them, Tawny's realization and, of course, Kate! I hope to elaborate on their stories during the next ones.

Also, I apologize for switching from Creole to French, but I figured Baron Samedi would know French.

Translations:

_Ma servante – _my servant

_ma guérisseuse – _my healer (female)

_ma enfante_ – my child


	18. Lingering Lineage: Shared Secrets

**A/N: **Sadly, I decided not to do the requested epilogue of Tales of Charon, amongst other things because it turned out as a witchhunt interrogation for Ziva. I might post it as a separate story when I've figured it out, but to compensate, I am posting this rather quick, which is the newest and third story - **Lingering Lineage**. Its summary is as following (if I don't change it):

_When a vampire kill so neat is is statistically impossible, the team must venture to NY for suspects, leaving exposed weaknesses behind. While there, Abby meets her vampire father who makes Rena stiffen. _

**Disclaimer: **I don't own NCIS, or any of its characters.

* * *

><p><strong>Lingering Lineage: Chapter 1: Shared Secrets<strong>

"Mmm," she gasps, the pleasure crawling on her skin. It is hard to determine where the pleasure starts and stops, as her entire body is so relaxed, so committed to the act. "This is great," she says with slurred speech.

"We should do this more often," he suggests.

"Hmph," she snorts. "I work with politicians, we couldn't do this often enough," she states.

"True," he concurs. "But you are really, really tense."

"Maybe I just enjoy this –."

A sound alerts them both. They tense, previously actions forgotten and focus on the noise. It does not return, and their eyes meet.

"Are you sure Kelly is not coming home?" Jen asks, uncertain. "She might get the wrong idea."

"She's staying at a friend's house. Sleepover. Besides, I thought you said you enjoyed this?"

Jen chuckles, putting her glass of red-wine down. Great, her shoulders are tense again. She sighs, "I do. I am. Continue," she orders softly, and once again, his hands return to their rightful place on her shoulders and neck, massaging the muscles.

"It feels like it has been ages," she moans as he massages a knot.

Jethro grins, working through the visible stress. "You know what could easily resolve this."

She stiffens a bit. "I don't have the opportunities you have at work to use my powers. Besides, I try to control mine so they won't suddenly –."

"I see that, Jen," he declares. "You are tense because of it. When were you last fully active?"

"My, that's a personal question," she points out.

"It's a Friday evening and I am massaging my half-naked CEO," he remarks, his voice altering to an almost sultry version of his own.

She scoffs but sees his reason. The thin cotton top is easy to remove, but remains on, and the jeans are far from her office clothes. "It's nice."

"And you're tense. I am serious, Jen, when did you last shift?"

"I am a sylph, Jethro, not an augmenter. You don't feel the after effects of your power. I do. When I 'go active' as you put it, it takes hours to shift back. It's nauseous."

"Accept your power, Jen, or these knots will get worse," he forecasts, proving his point as a sharp, relieving pain stabs through her.

She sends him a dirty look. "You want me to ruin our Friday night by talking to a mist? If Kelly comes home, she'll definitely think you're crazy."

"Always did argue when being told what to do," he points out sillily.

She pouts but moves closer to his face, dangerously close, flirtatiously close. Her emerald eyes meet his blue with such passion that she is surprised that she is able to hold it back. "You _do _remember I'm your boss, right?"

"Just trying to ease your day, Boss," he flips back.

"You never make anything easier, Jethro," she sighs. "Anyway, can we get back to you massaging me. Your hands are godlike."

"I meant what I said. At some point, you have to shift. Ignoring it won't make it go away."

"I can't disappear for six hours without people starting to ask questions!" she exclaims.

"Then tell people. We have an open power policy," he points out almost angrily.

"Don't do that, Jethro. You know very well why that policy works. Because I enforced it. I struggle with claims that it is unethical for supernaturals to enforce the law everyday. Vance and Kort would be all over me if I revealed my special state."

"Sometimes being all over you can be therapeutic," he says suggestively. "But Vance and Kort should not be the ones doing so. Kort is a loose cannon. I have no idea why the spooks allow him a license to kill."

"For the same reason they allow Fornell a badge," she whispers, leaning against his chest with closed eyes. "Results."

"Tobias makes sure he is punishing the one responsible," the hunter says through gritted teeth. "Kort is a killer."

She laughs bitterly. "They are both Executioners, Jethro. Kort is just more honest about it."

"If it hadn't been supernaturals, we would have him on trial. He abuses the law."

"The law enables him to do it, Gibbs. He has found a way to use the fear of politicians. He cannot be held accountable. Think about the beings we encounter. To put it harshly, we need Executioners like Kort."

"He should be held accountable. Even supernaturals could be innocent. How would you feel like if it was Abby or Tony?" he asks, adding, "or Ziva?"

"I would fight for their lives," Jen states bluntly, then sighs. "Can we change the subject? The system has flaws, but it takes time changing it. Especially with discretion."

By now, they are lying against one another, spooning on the couch. The single glass of red-wine stands abandoned by the coffee table, accompanied by a mug of bourbon. Some movie is playing on the small TV, but their conversation is more interesting than the flick on the screen.

"Why do you have a couch in your basement, anyway?" Jen asks, finding its location ridiculous. It is a great resting place for their break, but next to the skeleton of a boat, it looks out of place.

"You tell me," he shrugs.

* * *

><p>"Seriously, Theodora? Who names their kid 'Theodora'?" the teenage boy says incredulously. He sends the bag of chips onto the next person by his side.<p>

The trio's laughters subdue as the blonde elaborates. "I swear, by the time I was four, I hated my grandmother for it."

"It's a pretty name," Kelly argues, then blushes as she sees the anger in her fellow friends' eyes. "but I see why you prefer Tawny."

"Thank you," said teenager replies. She yawns tiredly as the twilight moon settles on the hills. The moonlight is not enough to make her skin tingle, but she is a child of the moon and her senses are sharper during the night.

The trio are sitting on a hillside lawn on the outskirts of the city, watching the lit city. The Ellipse by night, the beaming light making the marble of monuments and memorials shine. Kelly, the only of the three with a driver's license, has parked her SUV a mile back where the road forks out into two paths. It may not have been the ideal Friday night for teenagers elsewhere, but everybody in the trio feels the magical tingle of tonight.

"Can't I call you Thea, then?" Nate tries to reason, but is shot down by an almost murderous expression coming from the wer. "Hey! You introduced yourself as Trish..."

"Tawny is the name I use. The only name I need," the teen girl sullenly admits.

"That's because you don't go to school," Kelly says, "which I can live with, even if it's unfair."

"Not that many wers have high-end jobs, Kels," the lycanthrope bounces back matter-of-factly as she examines the goods in the bag of chips.

"Tony does."

"He is more the exception to the rule. Most of us don't need high school diplomas or university degrees," Tawny elaborates absentmindedly.

"Did your parents go to high school, Tawn?" Nate asks, attempting yet another nickname for the youngest member of their group. She claims to be way older than she is, but has admitted to being fifteen a while back. So far, her birthday remains hidden despite the duo's attempts to fry her beans.

"Yeah," she faintly admits. "at least, they claimed to."

She goes quiet and awkward silence settles on them. It is Nate, surprisingly, who resolves it. "'s alright, Tawny, we're all a bit touchy about the subject of parents."

The golden-eyed, blonde-haired teen looks up and meets understanding looks from her fellow campers. Nate is right; they're all pretty fucked up by tragedies, given what state they are in. The fact that they have been holding secret group sessions without their guardians' knowledge or consent says something about how fucked up their lives are. They are resorting and seeking help elsewhere, because despite their attempts to be all sort of mature, sometimes it helps talking to a fellow kid.

Tawny's eyes land on Nate, who braces for her study. He knows about her life – as much as she chooses to tell, anyway – and doesn't judge, because he met her the same place, at Classique, a supernatural bar and nightclub, where he was tagging along with his necromancer uncle, Dante Navarro, whose name is feared on a global basis by all kind of undead. He does not have the same gift as his uncle, but he can raise the dead. He is nothing but an animator in his uncle's eyes, and that is the reason for the loose reins. It is sad, because the blue-haired boy with dark eyes that shine with mischief is a wonderful person behind his incompetence to wield power over the dead.

The strawberry blonde next to her is the oldest, seventeen years old of age, with crystal blue orbs that flash knowingly in the dark. Like the rest, she is extraordinarily gifted; hers is the ability to spot supernaturals for what they really are. She is a senior in high school, turning eighteen next summer, but somehow still fits into a normal society even if her father is an ex-hunter and investigator of supernaturals. Tawny met her through Nate and despite the obvious age difference, they get along well.

"Anything fun happened in the pack lately, lupa?"

"Don't call me that," Tawny dismisses, still uncomfortable with the title after months of being addressed by older people, women and men, as a leader. Luckily she shares the burden with Tony, packmaster, the alpha to her lupa. "And it hasn't. You know I can't just blurt out pack law."

"Okay," Nate pouts, then takes a sip of his soda, turning his gaze heavenwards. "It's a beautiful night, though."

"Don't talk like that, it reminds me of drama class, a Midsummer Night's Dream," Kelly complains, screwing up her face at the mention of the current production.

"Why are you in so many clubs, anyway? Extracurricular activities and extra credit?" Nate asks. "You're a great archer, a decent soccer player, an extreme goalie and member of the student council. How do you make room for it all?"

The strawberry blonde hesitates before she answers, taking her time as she stares at the sky. She is not ignorant of the things that roam the forest, but with with Tawny and Nate, she feels safe. "I don't know. It just sort of just.. happened."

"You have lots of girlfriends at school," Nate points out, knowingly. He attends the same school but has fewer classes because he is not closing in on the SATs. He has seen her in the hallways with Misty, Marie, or Lou. She is popular, more than she'd care to admit, which he has confided in Tawny.

She rubs her palms frustratedly against her eye sockets. "I don't know what I am gonna do after high school. I've gone to Wilson High for the last four years, it's like a second home for me!" she exclaims.

Tawny and Nate exchange looks. "I'm sure he didn't mean to upset you," Tawny clarifies, putting a calming hand on her back.

"I know."

"And, isn't that the reason for these meetings? Chilling out," Nate supplies, gesturing towards the night sky clad in diamonds of stars with his soda.

"I guess it is," Kelly says softly. "It's just weird, being allow to be honest for once. I never had that with anyone besides my father."

"Me neither," the boy admits bitterly, tightening the blanket around him. "I mean, Dante is great and took me places where supernaturalism was everyday lives, but I could never confide in any of the people I met. Not like I can with you guys."

Tawny remains silent. She left Australia and her parents before she turned twelve years. She has been a waif, a stray ever since, finding small comfort in the packs that welcomed her instead of shunning her. Larkin, the alpha before Tony, had been cruel in her initiation but had not killed her or refused her. While her ties to Tony and the DC wers are stronger than anything she has felt before, she is settling down, the trio is a proof of that.

* * *

><p>The air is so cold that clouds of breaths are visible in the frosty air in the hangar as the representatives, or agents, from the investigation team arrive, the heels of their boots clicking against the concrete floor. A flashlight beam is sent in their direction, blinding them temporarily before the security guard realizes who his company is. He, too, is rubbing his hands against his forearms in an attempt to get warm. They do not blame him; New Year has come and passed, leaving a wake of cold, sleet and running noses. Remarkably, they have both avoided that, although luck is not to blame.<p>

The man is slightly taller than the woman, but buried in warm coats and thick pants, they look similar, both heads dressed in black beanies. Her hair is neatly braided on her back and secured by the back of the neck, her middle-eastern features paling in the cold. To her own annoyance, her teeth is clattering slightly and she keeps closing her eyes to warm her cheeks with the help of her eyelashes. Mittens are on the hands that are deeply buried in the pockets of the black wool coat, and she is silent when her partner addresses the slightly obese security guard, only wrestling her badge from her pocket with a stiffness not encountered in the summer.

"NCIS," the man declares, barely choking a yawn. His eyes are reverting to their pre-exposed state, gleaming dangerously as the guard escorts them to the scene.

"Agent DiNozzo, and this is David," he says, pointing a cold finger in the woman's direction. They pass several piles of industrial plastic, some even hangs from the ceiling as to try and cover up the crime, but by the time they reach the small site, a detective has joined them along with a nameless crime scene technician.

"Found him like this," the equally tired detective grunts. "You ask me, it's strange alright, but when my boss called and said to hand it over to you guys, I happy obliged.."

The medical examiner – theirs not having arrived yet – turn over the medical blanket that has been used to cover up the corpse. Her features had been delicate once, her raven hair almost like a china doll, but her neck bears the marks of something they are all too familiar with. Frankly, a third of their case load is vampire related. This comes as no surprise, except for the neatness, which the man observes as he kneels down, sniffing the body from a distance.

"It's very neat. Definitely not a savage kill," he states matter-of-factly, using glove-clad hands to remove her shiny hair from her neck. The marks are no more violent than needle marks.

"You saying someone stabbed her and cleaned her up like this? Sick, man," the detective notes, too uncaring to sound remotely sympathetic.

Despite his carelessness that she was once a human being, the woman can only agree. For a vampire to possess the control of cleaning up the blood – because she is not drained, the congealment in the saliva having stopped the bleeding – is almost unrecorded. She lies nude in an old-fashioned but functional, velvet-padded coffin. The Israeli kneels down, too, examining the wood with her fingertips, ignoring the cold that goes against the thin latex material.

"Beautiful carvings. Old, but very well preserved. Not a reconstruction, but the real deal. Seventeenth century at least," she states.

Her partner looks at her incredulous. "You can tell that from a coffin? Creepy, Ziva."

"You are examining the neck of a corpse, Tony," she teases back with a glimpse of mischief in her brown eyes. "why am I the creepy one?"

"That's different," he claims, stepping back and standing, itching to peel off the gloves and return his hands to his pockets. He looks around at the few persons at the nighttime crime scene. "Where is Ducky, anyway?"

Without looking up, she replies, her eyes still studying the craftsmanship. "He is on vacation, Tony. Visiting his Scottish roots, I believe he said."

"Who're we waiting for, then?" he complains, trying to warm his hands with his breath, sending a weird look in the direction of the security guard and the detective.

"Doctor Jordan Hampton is covering his shifts with Jimmy."

The comment brings a grin to Tony's face. "Autopsy gremlin is finally stepping up, huh?"

"Tony, the incident with the zombie was an honest mistake, and it is unfair of you to hold it against him," Ziva says patiently as if talking to a child, but smiles mentally at the memory of how startled the young harbinger had been when muffled voices had come from the morgue freezer.

"Whatever you say," Tony dismisses, turning his attention towards the detective who looks like he is waiting to go home to bed. "Where was she headed?"

"The tag says her final destination was JFK in New York," the detective says, skimming his notes. "The security guard states that she was only found because some luggage guys messed up and dropped the crate. They freaked when they found her and called the guard. She is not declared as a .. corpse."

"Meaning somebody wanted her death to go unnoticed," Tony whispers, staring at the bite on the neck. It is vampire, alright.

"Listen, I got a wife and kids to say goodbye to in the morning, so could the two of you speed this up..?" the flamboyant detective asks, hurrying them along with his notepad.

Both agents stare at him incredulously, but it is the former assassin that takes the word. "Death is not impatient, Detective Myles, but it will always arrive."

Myles shrugs, not taking her comment seriously but caring enough to allow their work to go on undisturbed. He retreats to a corner and starts an idle conversation with the night security guard, eyeing the strange couple. Feds, he scoffs.

"Think somebody ordered a snack?" Tony whispers to his Israeli partner who is searching her skin for any bruising. It is unusually neat.

"Fairly unlikely. For any vampire to possess the control..," she muses, deep in thought. "Do you trust Rena's word about informing us of any master vampire's arrival?"

Squeamish about said hostess, Tony squirms uncomfortably at the mention of Rena LaCour, whom Ziva has yet to meet. "If she was aware, yeah, but she is known for twisting her words. You really think only a master could've done this so neatly?"

"Or a servant of one. Is it definitely vampire?"

He nods, peeling off his gloves just as the vision of Jordan Hampton arrives. Her face is flustered from the cold, but she manages to look professional even though it is in the middle of the night. She courtly acknowledges the two men before moving unto Tony and Ziva.

"DiNozzo, David," she greets, then puts on latex gloves and puts her kit next to the broken crate. "Eek."

The two federal agents exchange gazes but do not comment on the unusual exclaim. They watch as the medical examiner – with a special degree in supernatural attacks – examine the neck of the dead woman, much like they did themselves earlier. Hampton looks up at them, glances to the detective and night guard and waits until Tony has sent them away to share her results.

"I take it you can determine it was a vampire?" she asks, looking at the male agent, who smiles sheepishly. It is well known that he is a wer, but it has been weird since he became the Alpha of the local pack nine months ago. Especially seeing as Hampton is human and has no judgments to give, which is not something he meets every day.

"Yeah, but we need you to do the measurements," Tony says, holding up his index and middle fingers to gesture the measuring between the canine teeth. She will need to give them a specific measure between the puncture marks so they can compare it to any suspects (but it will probably be too late, seeing as normally, by the time vampires feel subjected to investigation, they tend to grow violent and aggressive, and pulling out a measuring tape is ridiculously helpless).

"Of course," the ME replies, checking temperature and doing preliminary examinations. "Why is Gibbs not here?"

The question is casual, but makes the two agents eye each other. It is Tony who responds. "We decided to give him a night off."

"So you didn't inform him of this case?" Hampton asks in casual disbelief. "You're playing with fire, Tony."

"That is when I'm at my best," the Italian-American flirts back.

His partner rolls her eyes while Jordan Hampton shakes her head. Yeah, keeping Gibbs uninformed will probably come back and bite him in his ass, but for now he can be cocky about it. It's gonna earn him a headslap later, though, Hampton knows them enough for that to be a fact.

* * *

><p>Skating her eyes over the crowd, the vampire is pleased to attest that <em>Classique<em> is busy tonight, and Joshua is having trouble keeping up with the many requests, even with his trainee, a shapeshifter by the name of Ephiny.

Rena turns her head and returns to her private office, stepping away from the mezzanine balcony. The drapes are shut, leaving the beaming moonlight reflect on the violet décor. Despite its owner and occupant, and the burlesque interior design, it is a normal office, equipped with all items necessary for keeping a business like _Classique_ running alongside with the cafe by the name of Orbit, whose co-owner is the Michigander bartender. She sits down in the red velvet-holstered chair and looks into the orbs of her self-proclaimed protege, Abby. And by self-proclaimed, Rena means that Rena is the one who has done the proclaiming.

The dhampir started out as a side-project, something to keep her interest piqued. While _Classique_ has officially only been around for the last decade, Rena has had establishments in the capital city for the last fifty years if not more. Before that she toured with different vampires, exploiting Europe and every sin the world had to offer. By modern records, she is one of the oldest residents of Washington, DC., having crossed the four-hundred mark. Politics and laws change so rapidly that she is well entertained with _Classique_, but Abby is the first dhampir she has encountered during her lifespan. Her extraordinary abilities – compared both to humans and vampires – entrance and fascinate Rena, that much she admits.

Abby is foolishly naïve, almost mortal in her way of thinking. Rena has taken it upon herself to teach the poor young thing what the dark side has to offer. So yes, she might be spoiling the girl, but you cannot rape the willing, and when Abby first came, drawn to the night club and its clientele, she practically begged for guidance, albeit shocked by the methods. During the last year, she has progressed well, extended her normally advanced senses to its potential, learnt remarkable resolve (for someone who has grown up around pesky human morals, that is) and made Rena quite envious.

Glancing at the tall, black-haired dhampir, the vampiress wonders if the sire of her planned her conception, knowing the riches and rewards, but so far, Abby has been firm in her belief and claim that she has never known her father – or his name for that matter. Rena has tried just as firmly to get her to reveal it, using her charms, force and even seductive skills, but it seems as if Abby is just as ignorant as Rena about her parentage. That is not what makes Rena envious, no; never has she desired to be a mother, perhaps during her short time as a mortal all those centuries ago, but the thought of creating a wonder like Abby appeals to her. Sadly, female vampires cannot bear spawn, not even if the sexual partner is human. Abby's father, however, could impregnate her mother (a rather sore subject for the dhampir), creating a dhampir.

"Where did we leave off?" she asks eccentrically, knowing very well where they left off. However, her acute ability to commit things to memory despite interruptions rest unwell with her protege.

"Feedings. Or, rather, how to postpone them," the blue-eyed youngling replies, staring ignorantly into her own orbs, projecting her enthusiasm. She is a goth by style, but mortal by personality. Currently, she is wearing black skinny jeans, those ridiculously tall plateau boots and a crimson camisole, accompanied by a black jacket with bronze (Rena has forbidden her to wear any silver items here) studs and faux black fur. Zirconium earrings take up most of her ears and her trademark spider web tattoo is visible on her neck against her pale skin. The vampire once asked how many of these tattoos she had, only to be flashed a cheeky grin and a dishonest and suggestive answer.

Rena sighs. "We've already had this conversation. I enjoy indulging in experiments, but we've already proven that you need to feed every 72 hours. I cannot understand why you would be displeased with this, seeing as an average vampire, your age or any age, must feed even more frequently," she states, flashing her fangs just to prove her point. She runs her tongue over the tips, enjoying the remaining taste of her last meal – who is still alive in the crowd, mind you.

"But you do admit that this has never been tested before," Abby points out, ever the scientist.

"Not to my knowledge, no," Rena admits, adjusting her dress.

"Then there might be a –."

"Abby, stop it," she orders in a no-nonsense voice. "Your condition is none with a cure. You are both, but neither. Stop trying to belong so foolishly in both worlds. You can walk the day, which I cannot. You can recall things you have never experienced through the blood you taste, which I cannot. But your senses are limited, your control astonishing. I have told you that you amuse me, but do not tire me with the same questions just because you are unsatisfied with my answers. I do not understand you absolute will to challenge what you are in the hopes of what you could be. It's..," Rena pauses, screws up her face in disgust, "–mortal."

"You say it like it's a weakness," Abby states, clearly upset. "but it's human."

"Humans live but for a moment, Abby," Rena says softly. "I am not without heart. But as you outlive your friends, you will need to accept things for what they are. I can see how my answers seem to old-fashioned and stuck-up now, but in a few decades, maybe half a century, they will make sense."

Abby eyes her suspiciously. "You are hard to figure out, Rena."

"I have been told that many times," she chuckles. "but trust me when I say even the most openminded person will lie about their intentions and thoughts about you. We are not easily accepted for what we do, even if humans have the highest kill count in the recorded history of man."

The dhampir grins. "Yeah, but that is the history of man, not the untold one of vampires. Or did you not tell me of Elizabeth Báthory last week?"

"Six hundred victims are none compared to those of world wars, Abigail," the vampiress states absently, her mind flashing back to the rumors surrounding the Hungarian noblewoman. Sadness shows on her face, but she pushes it on. Continuing tonight's lessons, they are quick to change subject away from the blood-bathing villain of history.

* * *

><p><strong>What do you like in this chapter? Please say so in a kind or aggressive review :D<strong>


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